Wolf Scraps
by Morgul-squirrel
Summary: A collection of drabbles centered around Sauron and various OCs I choose to torture him with. This is largely made up of pieces from the cutting room floor of The Young Wolf, but I've decided to broaden the selection of what falls under the title. I'm exploring ideas (most of which are crack) without interfering with my works-in-progress.
1. Drabble: Redhorn Pass

**Author's Note: I was bored, and not feeling well. Humour is good medicine, and working with it in my writing certainly helps keep my mind over matter. Apologies if this is poorly written, but I've always wanted to give Caradhras a stern talking to, for waylaying the Fellowship. Who better to do so, than Sauron's own son?  
**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

* * *

 **At the Peak of the Redhorn Pass**

The wind howled and lightning cracked loudly in the sky above. Stiffly Fëatho clung to the short cliff wall, unable to go further. Too loud, too scary, too powerful, too strange… he shuddered under drapes of wool. Hugging his cloak did little good against the cruel chilly weather, and Boromir stopped next to him.

"Move."

Mute and wide eyed Fëatho shook his head. His fingers dug into the rock he was pressing his back against. They were growing numb against the cruel the stone. Boromir's eyes softened a moment, before being replaced by a frown.

"We can't stop here. We're dead if we do, and you're blocking the safest place on the ledge."

"I saw weather like this, a few days before I left Mordor!"

"There's no weather like this in Mordor!"

The Captain of Gondor scowled, feeling the panic rolling of the Mordorian slave in powerful waves. Alongside it he felt a flicker of pity. To have lived in a place where there were no thunderstorms and to suddenly be standing on a precipice in one of the worst storms Boromir had ever seen, he understood why the boy was scared, too afraid to move forward. He understood, and a moment later he swatted his sentimentality away.

"It's scary! I understand, but if you don't move I'll throw you over the edge, myself!"

Rocks cracked above them, and they both huddled against the rock face, as they crashed about them.

"Stop! Stop! No more I implore you!" Fëatho screamed as the wind snatched his words from him. Fear turned to fury, and his grey eyes were bright with fire and it shimmered with danger in the air about him.

"Desist Because I! AM! TALKING!" He kicked the rock before him, and it cracked under foot. The wind died and the blizzard relented. Indeed he had captured the mountain's attention!

Fëatho glowered upward in the direction of the mountain's lofty crown soaring several hundred feet above them, lost somewhere in the thick clouds.

"Listen you! You overgrown malicious hunk of charcoal! You temper tantrum throwing toddler, sprung from the malice of Morgoth's loins! Hinder us anymore and the New Lord of Middle Earth, the Greatest of Dark Lords, Mairon the Magnificent will melt you down for candle sticks-!"

"Candlesticks?" Merry asked, looking quizzically between Gandalf, Legolas, and Pippin.

His answer was a headshake and a hand wave from Gandalf. Legolas had a hand over his mouth, amused by this sudden turn or horrified- quite possibly both. He stood still on a snow drift, watching as the glowing fiery servant of Saruon ranted at the mountain.

"-You're not fit to even be melted down for candles. You'd be lucky if the Dark Lord saw fit to grace your flank with an engraving of "Gorthaur," you abominable, dreadful, loathsome, useless lump of shale-!"

"Oh Valar, we're all going to die," Legolas whispered. "Mithrandir, please do something."

The wizard was indeed doing something. He was smiling, or more accurately trying not to.

"I never thought I'd say this, but almost glad we brought him with us!" Pippin whispered to Merry. "He's out of his mind! It's hilarious!" He hissed and giggled.

"-Mightiest of the Misty Mountains they call you! Ha! I've seen slag in Mordor more befitting of the name! When he hears of us, of you, what you've attempted here, the Lord of the Earth will not be pleased. You'll be lucky if you majesty escapes his wrath then. Let us pass, and we shall sing your praises wherever we wander! We'll forget your cruelty, and come this way never again! But should you hamper us anymore and I would not wish to be you when the Dark Lord comes."

The mountain leered down at him, a tiny glowing echo of a greater power, pathetic and small on the edge of a mighty precipice. And Caradhras hated that little candle flame more than it had ever hated anyone.

Fëatho's eyes narrowed, and puissance coiled hot and golden at his fingertips, and he spoke in a voice deep and cold, and horribly unlike his own. "Don't test me mountain." Sauron shown through him. His influence glowed like a crown on Fëatho's brow, and the ring about Frodo's neck grew suddenly heavy, and he gasping cling to it as bore him toward the ground.

"Frodo," Aragorn's voice was frightfully strained, and gratefully the hobbit sagged into the man's arms.

His grey eyes narrowed in Fëatho's direction. This servant of Mordor was not ordinary. He'd known that from the start, but the proof was shining before him, molten and hot and cruel. This person blazing on the brink of a terrible fall below was not the skittish, amiable, and kind slave of Sauron they knew. In his place was a lord, dark and deadly, like Sauron, but lesser and shockingly on their side for the moment.

Gandalf's fist was tight around his staff, his eyes narrowed and dark. Tensely he was watching their prisoner and unexpected companion with apprehension.

The clouds above them cleared, and the sun in her golden majesty, fell warm upon their cold shoulders. And Fëatho appeared to shrink. His eyes again were grey. The power that had crackled about him faded, replaced with ordinary sunlight. And he looked above, smiling as the light touched his face. Then he slumped, pitching into the snow and disappearing from view, in a shower of white.

"Fëatho! Fëatho-!" Aragorn shouted, refusing to relinquish the slumped hobbit in his arms.

Cautiously and quietly Legolas approached, kneeling on the snow, with an ease that was enviable. No print or mark was left in his wake, and after a moment of staring down, he reached out a hand and hauled the snow covered servant of Mordor out of the drift.

"Come. We can't tarry."

The boy looked haggard and exhausted, covered in white flecks. He slipped an arm around the elf's neck, and for a moment Legolas stiffened, but after a moment, he reluctantly wrapped an around Fëatho's waist and helped him walk.

Together they trudged, Fëatho sagging against the elf, who bore his weight with ease if not contempt. "Elves really are strong. My father always said so…."

At that Legolas only frowned.

No more sleet slicked their path, no more lighting cracked above them, nor did anymore rocks fall upon them. And while it seemed Fëatho had cooled the mountain's temper no one dared to celebrate. Instead Boromir and Aragorn ploughed through the snow drifts so that Gandalf, Gimli, and the hobbits could follow.

"Look Fëatho, we dance upon the snow, whilst the ploughmen plough." He laughed at the men's' expense.

"That may be true, dear friend," Aragorn grunted, heaving a pile of snow out his path. "But the pair of you look about as graceful as a three legged swan."

The elf laughed, and his grey eyes glistened with mirth. At his side Fëatho shyly smiled, feeling horribly alone and out of place. He found their banter funny, and enjoyed their company, more than he ought, but they weren't his friends or companions. He was their prisoner, and his smile ran away from his face. It was wrong. Everything was wrong.

He liked these people, understood their plight, and cared for them. But he cared for his father too, and he didn't know how to be loyal to both. In truth he couldn't be and he knew it. He couldn't betray his father or his people, but betraying The Fellowship and their quest, understanding their need for freedom was horrible too. What could he do?

Tightly Fëatho clung to the elf, as if doing so might provide him stability in his own mind. He had no such luck, and he felt, rather than saw the elf glance at him.

Slowly the Fellowship and their prisoner made it to the other side of the pass.

Pippin whooped, jumping in the sunshine. "It's great to have a servant of Sauron with us!"

"Pippin!" Several voices hissed.

Fëatho bit his tongue, and he could feel the elf's discerning gaze again: appraising him, studying him, picking him apart, he stood. "Thanks. I think I can manage from here." It was blatant lie, but Fëatho didn't like those eyes, didn't like the way Legolas was gazing at him, as if he knew Fëatho was lying. He merely nodded.

"-no so loud. Enemies may hear you!" Merry was busy reprimanding his cousin. "He's not exactly on our side to begin with." He cast a narrowed eyed glance at the servant of Mordor, hunched and struggling to walk on his own.

Unfortunately, no one could disagree with Pippin's outburst, as Cruel Caradhras became an unpleasant memory behind them.


	2. Drabble: Footrace

**Author's Note: From a scrapped piece of dialogue. Yes, it's a bit of Sauron and Fëatho fluff that didn't make the cut.  
**

 **Disclaimer: No I don't own.**

* * *

 **Footrace**

The grass swayed, bowing under a sea breeze. Smiling up at the dark cloaked figure, Fëatho stood barefoot and happy, twirling in the pale light of Mordor's southern sun. The dark clouds of Orodruin didn't reach Núrn, and the boy was soaking up the sunlight, his pale skin darkening slightly as he'd spent the better part of a week frolicking about out of doors.

"Come on! Come on!" He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, crimson braid bounding from his shoulder. "Father!" He groused at the Dark Lord, putting his hands on his hips and putting. "Father." His voice took on an irritated edge, and it was all Mordor's Lord could do to stifle his laughter at the absurdity of being snapped at by a child that didn't even reach his knee.

Tiny fingers found clenched the edge of his dark robes, and the boy pulled, insistent and irritated. "Dinner's going to be ready soon! And Mother's waiting! Come on!" He yanked on the silver edged robes, and to humour him the Dark Lord falteringly shifted his foot forward.

Glad he was that the boy's mother, had departed their company earlier, otherwise she would have borne witness to this and had been rolling in a fit. She would have never let him forget this.

Grinning down at the grumpy red-haired tot attempting to drag him back to the palace.

"Look at how strong you are!" He smiled. They'd progressed maybe three inches. "Keep going, and I'm sure we'll get there soon." Mocking sarcasm slaked his voice, as he stifled a laugh.

With a growl the boy gave up pulling him, instead darting around behind him to push him.

The sheer audacity undid him, and he laughed. Genuine mirth bubbled up, and echoed across their grassy wind swept hill.

"It's not funny!" The genuinely angry shout from his calf lifted another wave of hilarity from the Dark Lord's chest. Irritable and tenacious those tiny hands kept pushing against his legs with all their might, and he stood shaking, hand pressed against his mouth to contain rapturous mirth.

"You're too big!" Fëatho snapped, pausing in his attempts to push his father forward, to fix the hooded face he couldn't see with a fiery glare. "And you're not funny!"

"I'm not funny?" He gasped as if astounded. "That pains me. That pains me deeply." Sarcasm dribbled from his voice.

"Seriously!" The boy whined.

"Seriosuly? I'm being serious." The Dark Lord raised an astonished hand to his chest, in mocking distress.

"No you're not." The boy spat, giving him a surly glare, as he slowly moved to face him, attempting to glare down a Dark Lord standing ten feet over him. "You're being silly and mean. And I'm going to tell Mother."

"I wonder what she'll think when I tell her you don't appreciate my humour."

The boy petulantly crossed his arms and pouted. "You need better jokes."

"Ugh! Your words! How they've wounded me!" The Lord of Mordor fell backward into the grass. "Fëatho. I think you'll have to go on without me."

Pink cheeked, and peeved the boy grabbed his father's arm. "You still not funny! Come on!"

The Dark Lord didn't budge. "Come on!" Fëatho gave another vicious tug, truly frustrated.

On his back, mantled in his dark robes the Lord of Mordor was utterly still, completely silent, and almost entirely at peace. The sun warmed him through his robes, and the grass smelled fresh about him. The wind sweeping over him, pleasant and tinged with salt, ringing with the calls of distant gulls.

He smiled as his son's futile attempts to move him ceased, and instead the boy frowned down at him.

"Ada?" A note of worry crept into the child's voice. "Ada?"

"Father we have to go." The boy shook his wrist, only to watch it fall limply to the grass between them. His little brow puckered. "You're not funny. I'm leaving without you."

Before the boy could even look away, the Dark Lord lunged. "Not until you say I'm funny." The worlds rumbled in his chest as he growled. His fingers danced against the boy's ribs as he squealed, bucked, and squirmed.

"You-you're not-you're!" He was crying with laughter. "-Not!"

"Not funny!"

"Say it Fëatho! Admit you think I'm funny and this can end!" He smiled as the boy squirmed desperate to escape the impromptu tickle. "No!" He shrieked happily. "You're not-ah-haha!"

"We'll never leave if you don't! I don't know about you, but I can stay here all evening."

"No-!" Protest was staunched by the fingers dancing across his belly. "Stop-not-funny-!"

"Your stubborn refusal to comply won't spare you. Now, tell me," he hoisted the boy up, cradling him against his chest. "Am I funny?"

The boy shook in a fit of raucous laughter. "No!"

Above him the Dark Lord shook his head. "What am I to do with you?" Trapped in his arm the boy howled with tearful laughter. "Hmm…I tell you what? I'll make you a deal. How's that? You admit I'm funny and we'll leave right now?"

Trying and failing to stifle a fit of giggles, he shook his head.

"Carry me too."

The Dark Lord tilted his head. "You mean you want to leave and you want to be carried?"

"Yes!"

Tapping a finger to his lips Mordor's Lord thought for a moment. "That's a bit greedy, wouldn't you agree? What's your hurry anyways?"

The boy's brow furrowed, and he pouted. "I'm hungry."

"I thought, we agreed at breakfast this morning you weren't allowed to get hungry anymore."

Fëatho sniggered. "That's not funny."

"Then why your

Sighing, the Lord of the Black Land relented. "Alright, I Mairon Lord of Middle-earth hereby solemnly swear to leave immediately and to carry you: Little Wolf to dinner, in exchange for the assurance that you find me funny."

"You're funny!"

The Dark Lord shook his head, suppressing silent mirth, before standing, and raising his son with him. Nestled in his arms. Fëatho squirmed.

"I wanna't see," he said plaintively, trying and failing to move.

"You wanted to be carried. I'm carrying you."

"I want to walk-"

"You want-fine…." The Dark Lord set the boy on his feet, and he watched as the boy walked through the grass.

"Ada, can I bring the grass home?"

Lake Núrnen's dark waters glistened and sparkled in the dying sunlight. Beaches of grey stone and gravelly coarse sand stretched toward the south, and he wondered why he didn't visit this place more often.

"Father, can I keep some pet grass?"

The Lord or Mordor looked down at his child fisting few loose bright green leaves. "No son, you can't. The grass needs light to grow." He knelt, gently plying the grass from Fëatho's clenched chubby fingers. "And roots. These leaves have no roots."

"What is a roots?"

The Lord of Mordor smiled, letting the loose leaves flutter to the ground. "A root, is like a foot. It holds the plant in the soil, but it's also what the plant uses to drink water. When we get to the palace gardens I'll show you."

The boy nodded, a light fading then returning to his eyes.

"I'll race you!" He chirped. He darted away only to be caught, and lift from the ground. Helpless and giggling he dangled like a sack of potatoes in his father's hands. "What do you think you're doing getting a head start you little cheater?"

"Winning."

The Lord of Mordor uttered a bark of laughter. "Well it seems you didn't. Now how about a proper race?"

Enthused and eager the boy nodded, and once again he was plopped in the grass.

Both stood at the ready, and Fëatho counted down, a mischievous glint in his grey eyes.

"Ready…Set…" He grinned up at his father, far too innocently, and that same coy unassuming smile tugged at the Dark Lord's lip. If only the boy knew what he'd gotten himself into.

Surreptitiously his foot shifted, until the toe of his boot stuck out before the child's feet. Two could play the game of deception.

"Go!" The boy darted forward only to hit the ground with a loud oof. Smugly the Lord of Mordor casually strode past, humming, as his long legs carried him effortlessly across the grass.

"Cheater!" Fëatho's indignant shouts caught up to him, and he turned to make sure he hadn't accidently harmed the boy. On his scrawny gangly legs the boy was running after him as fast as he could go.

"Cheater!"

The boy grasped the hem of his robes. "You cheated!"

"You tripped…." The Lord of Mordor smiled. "I think you're sour because I beat you."

"You cheated!"

A smirk was plastered to the Dark Lord's lip. "I cheated." He hoisted the boy in his arms. "Now there are two important lessons to learn from this. First, if you're going to cheat then there's a proper way to do it, and that I will teach you." He paused. "-But don't tell your mother I said that. She'd have a conniption. Secondly, I want you to understand that if you ever challenge me to a race, you will always lose."

Fëatho pouted, arms folded across his chest. "Did mother ever beat you in a race?"

A hidden smile curled his lip. "It's why I married her."

Hidden under the hood, the Dark Lord's furtive smile at the memory widened into a true smile.

Tall and proud the boy sat on the horse, his copper hair draped over his shoulder in its customary braid. The boy's grey eyes were bright and devious, as he deliberately checked his horse. It was a look the Lord of Mordor had seen before, a look he recognized instantly. It was that very expression that had sent him traipsing down memory lane in the first place: the look of a tenacious, stubborn boy, determined to lose another race, and the Lord of Mordor was more than happy to indulge him.

* * *

 **This was very spur of the moment. Sorry. Not sorry. The world needs more Sauron fluff.**


	3. Ch3:Beginning Bits

**Author's Note: This is not a normal scrap. Instead of posting scraps after completing and posting the third chapter, or posting a pointless flashback, that may never get referenced in that actual story at all, I've decided to do something a little bit different.**

 **So the third chapter of The Young Wolf, has proven to be a pain to write. It has gone through rewrite, after rewrite, after rewrite, after rewrite, and I'm still not satisfied. For a variety of reasons, I won't go into here, as they are too many to list. But even having nearly completed a fourth draft of the chapter, I'm once again disappointed and, even though I intend on having it reviewed by unofficial beta Whack-a-Beetle (I hope you don't mind me calling you out) I'm considering yet another rewrite, so what I will be doing is posting my scrapped and possibly-not-so-scrapped-ideas-after-all here. (Four and half rewrites so far, plus lots of ideas that never made it off the launch pad.)**

 **This way you'll have an idea of the progress I've made, will still have some access to Fëatho and Sauron, and be left wondering, what in the blazes will the actual chapter when it's done look like. Now I did say "possibly-not-so-scrapped-ideas-after-all" because some of the ideas I've had are recycling themselves, and every time they do, they're better than before, so you might as a consequence get a few previews of the final draft, without realising that you have. Don't worry though. I will not be posting spoilers. ;)**

 **So here we have two alternative beginnings to the third chapter. Both incredibly different in tone, but both are trying to convey roughly the same idea. For the sake of brevity, I'll be posting my three favourites, as they are. Unedited, so you can see all the grammar and spelling errors that don't make it into my work. (I do edit. I'm just too impatient to ever do a splendiferous job at it.)**

* * *

 **The Beginnings of Chapter Three**

 **Version 1:**

For days afterward Fëatho kept to himself. He remained quiet, more dedicated to the study of the languages spoken by Mordor's creatures, than Ikshu had seen him in a long time. A reptilian hawk, named Vras, Fëatho took pleasure in calling from the sky. And he poured over books of history with the softly chittering creature perched on his shoulder, or curled up sleeping on the desk beside him, bored into a comatose stupor as its master attempted to translate the pages of the book using the language the bird spoke with.

That much Ikshu was able to glean from observation. As always the servant tended to his accustomed duties, keeping a closer eye, than usual, on his Lord, fretting over his newly developed humour, and the cause of it.

He wasn't the only one.

In his chambers, at the utmost level, of Barad-dûr's topmost tower, the Lord of the Black Land was well aware of his son's change in behaviour. He was letting the boy have his time alone, sending servants to him with various parcels to be looked over, rather than summoning him for anything.

Better than most, the Dark Lord understood the need to be alone, with one's own problems. They had that in common, and while he did not stretch out his will to observe Fëatho's doings, knowing the full well the boy would sense it, he had seen to it that the boy was closely marked.

The reports came frequently at regular intervals, so that even without The Eye, he knew at all times what his son was up to.

He saw no reason yet to grow overly worried what he heard.

For days Fëatho remained cooped in his room, unwilling to leave it, just trying to wrap his head around what his father had said. It couldn't be true. It just couldn't be true, but he'd read of Beren and Lúthien, and he had read the story of Thingol and Melian. There was nothing but truth in what his father had said, and yet it was so horrible.

On some level, he had already known-should have at least, seeing as his father had gone out of his way to make sure Fëatho had a clear understanding of history. That didn't make it easier to deal with.

Barad-dûr had grown colder over the last few days. A hideous cold front was sweeping through the ramparts of the tower, clawing its way through the halls, sucking the heat from any space not heated by with a blazing fire.

The corridor inside Barad-dûr's dark walls were crushed with slaves trying to stay warm. As a result the outdoor causeways were emptier. It was him, an occasional watchman, and the wind noisome howled as it slipped through spikes and spires.

His hair whipped across his face, as he lifted a hand to irritably push it over his shoulder. The sky was empty of birds, and the grey clouds of ash roiling above, were grimmer than usual. As if they were aggravated by the turn in weather like he was. A few lower ones, rolled into the tower above. Cloven asunder by unyielding stone they momentarily obscured the towers and ramparts above, creating a low ceiling over his head.

The Window of the Eye was completely lost from view. It almost always was, but much of the main tower was veiled as well, slowly being lost more and more in an ethereal haze.

But the Great Eye could not be blinded by the clouds, and he could occasionally feel it on the edge of his senses, as it silently glided across the land. It had not looked upon directly, but he was sure he'd appeared on the edge of his father's visions.

 _As a bright little speck of sunshine,_ a voice in his head sarcastically chided.

Fëatho leaned against a heavy stone balustrade, absently picking an ice crystal, forming on the stone. It was an ugly little thing, coated in dust, blackened by his father's industry. It melted in his fingers and smudged pale skin in ash.

Hoarfrost had coated his windows in a pale grey haze he'd woken up. Ice crystals normally formed in winter, but were a constant all year round at the high altitudes of the utmost tower. But the ice had never caused serious damage to the stone. Barad-dûr was in a constant state of repair and disrepair. Water leeched into fine hairline cracks in the stone that widened when the moisture froze and expanded. But then they mysteriously disappeared. It had nagged at his for a long time until he'd asked his father where the cracks went.

They healed. The Dark Tower may have been built, but very few machines of industry had been needed to raise it. Much of the stone had been moulded by his father's mind and grown.

It would always do so, as long as his father's will permeated the rock. Far below, lost under shreds of tattered clouds, power pulsed through the foundation of the tower, flowing upward like blood through veins. Barad-dûr resembled a living organism rather than an architectural structure.

Fëatho sneezed as a cold wind howled against walls of the towers, its shrill voice filling his ears as it was rent apart by the thorny crown of the ramparts.

Hugging his heavy robes against the cold, he glowered at the sky. Irritably flicking another ugly little crystal from the railing, he departed, continuing on his way.

He was going to the library, to pull every account of Beren and Lúthien, and Thingol and Melian he could from the massive shelves. In truth he wasn't sure what he was hoping to find, only that he needed to search for that illusive solution to his problem.

It wasn't that he desired multiple lovers. Indeed the idea of one true love and only one was romantic and captivating, but he what he wanted was to know why he was going to suffer so heavily for it. Was it really because he was descended from Ainur? Was there really no Second Born resilience in him to mitigate the pain? Everyone suffered loss, but surely it would be so great for him, half-Edain, rather than half-Elven?

He unhappily fiddled with his hair as he walked. Making his way toward more sheltered hallways.

Regrettably he'd have to make his way to an indoor corridor, on the plus side the halls nearer the library would be less crowded- at least he hoped so. If worse cam to worse he could backtrack and make his way to the library from another direction.

No servants had come bearing letters or parcels for him to review, and he was free for the moment at least to do as he wished.

He pushed open a set of doors, sighing as warm air rushed outward to greet him.

Torches flickered, and the polished marble appeared to ripple like water, as those hazily reflected flames danced.

 **Footnote for V1:**

 **So when I first drafted this story two years ago, I decided that the first three chapters would be slice of life pieces. Each one showing Fëatho at a different point in adolescence until the fourth chapter where he's nineteen and still adolescent. (He'll still be nineteen by chapter four. But I have no idea how old he actually is in chapters one-three. Okay I rough estimates of how old he is. I actually touch on those in this chapter, so yay?! I guess if you wanted an exact point of time for this story.)**

 **Upon writing chapter 2, I thought it might work well to abandon my slaice of life idea and, write the third chapter as a direct follow-up rather than an ambiguous number of years in the future, and so I present you with this. Of all of them this is easily my favourite. Because I love breathing life into Barad-dûr . (It has become a guilty pleasure, and in a story like this its important for the sake of the plot that I do.) But for continuity reasons among others, this will not be the start of the third chapter.**

* * *

 **Version 2:**

I know you're hoping there's something to rad here, but alas, this version of events was deleted, how and when I don't know, but I was never able to recover it, but I still felt it was worth mentioning, because it was another one of those one of those chapters that captured Barad-dûr 's hidden beauty, but also provided insight into when this story is beginning.

This chapter start in the Hall of Wolves, a place that is nearly sacred to both Sauron and Fëatho for similar but different reasons.

Without giving too much away, it's my head canon, that Sauron's days in Tol-in-Gaurhoth were some of the best he had during his service to Morgoth. To Sauron, his wolves were more than mere servants or pets, but genuine and loyal companions. They were his friends, and in the case Draugluin nearly family, and it killed him inside when Luthien killed them all, making the loss of the tower that much more shameful, and that much more devastating. Not only had his most important prisoner died, not only had he been terribly defeated, but all at once in a single battle he'd lost all the people he cared for, and in turn cared about him.

He's never recovered, never forgiven himself, and never really moved on. The Hall of Woves was built, as a memorial to all those he lost, but a reminder of his failures, his inabilities, a testament to the guilt that's always haunted him, that he's never been able to atone for. Perhaps the only thing he truly wishes to atone for.

For Fëatho it's a place of legend and inspiration. But kinship, as well, and it's what sparks his fascination in wolves to begin with, and he wants to be one among the pack, to live up to those legends. But he also recognizes that these were beings who loved his father, and it's a place that proves that his father wasn't always lost or alone. And while he can't replace an of those memories, he desires to be a close companion and confidant of his lord and father, to ease some of that pain and loneliness.

While they're there, Sauron is giving his son, a lesson in controlling in manipulating fire, by showing him how to light the little candles that fill the hall like stars. While in the midst of this, Cadrian (a ringwraith) arrives with important news, concerning a strange creature that was caught skulking in the pass above Cirith Ungol, which Cadrian is lord of.

Fëatho, much to his disappointment, because he never gets to be around when eimportant things are going on, is kicked from the hall escorted by Hespar (another wraith-why he's in Barad-dûr I have no idea) while Cadrian and Sauron talk about this sorry creature that calls itself 'Gollum' and seems to have come across a ring of power or something else equally corrupting and terrible.

This would have put this part of the story about roughly eight years prior to the hunt for the ring, and Frodo's flight from the shire. Making Fëatho eleven.

Effectively this version, would have established, his age and the exact timing of this story's opening, but as I said it was deleted, and I wish it hadn't, but I couldn't recover it, and when I attempted to rewrite it, it was nowhere near as good as the first version had been. Still I felt this version of events was worth mentioning.

* * *

 **Version 3:**

"Do you not know to kneel before your betters?" Lord Kemic growled.

Fearfully Dirar made to do just that. "Forgive-"

"You will do no such thing!" Fëatho snapped. "Set your labour aside and go to the infirmary." His voice tapered into softened silk at the end.

Blinking blood from his eye, Dirar bowed. "My lord." There was relief and calm in his voice, even as blood dribbled from a gash above his eye.

"How dare you?" He slipped in between the foolish lord and his retreating slave, livid, insulted, and concerned. "How dare you?" Fury scraped across his teeth, and he hoped the foolish man heard it. "He's not yours to punish. Nor yours to command."

Worry for his servant and anger by such an affront, Fëatho was at a loss. It was one thing to think he was being insulted in silence when he couldn't hear it. It was one thing, to over hear a whispered derogatory comparison between himself and the Eldar. But this flagrant disregard for authority was quite another. And it was stunning.

"Perhaps, Lord Fëatho," Lord Kemic, began pleasantly, folding his hands gracefully before himself, while slipping into native language from Dorwinion. Fëatho inwardly scoffed, far from impressed by such a pitiful attempt to control the conversation. "If you were more steadfast in your leadership, your servant would have known to-"

"Ever-" Fëatho's voice was a black whisper, and easily he could have reached for the puissance that roiled through his fea as blood rushed through his veins. "-touch a servant of mine again-"

"Pray tell what it is you think you'll do?" An infuriating smirk curled his lip, and Fëatho inwardly flinched, hating the hollowness of the threat he hadn't even finished. Would he kill the man? Could he? Did he even dare say such a thing? He honestly didn't know, but deep down he suspected the horrific answer, the terrible softness that plagued him, cursed, and set him apart from every power in Mordor. _No_. A little voice in his head whisper. No, he never could, nor would he, and yet, it was death by which authority was determined. And he had killed no one. He'd never even laid a hand on anyone.

This lord knew it. They all knew it, and once this man left unscathed, they'd be assured all the more, that Mordor's prince was unworthy of such a station.

Something of his horror must have left its mark on his face, as he stood, rendered by silent, by impotent rage, and the sheer knowledge that he was-he was pathetic.

"Surely, lord, you know as all lords do that it is unwise to make idle threats?" The question burned like venom, but he refused to look away. He fisted his fingers in his sleeve, refusing to raise them to his hair, even as the urge overwhelmed him to do so.

"So the truth's revealed, you are a little flower in the end. Lugbúrz's own copper blossom, choking amid the rocks. And here I thought, they'd said that you had flowers in your blood as a jest." Kemic shrugged. "Perhaps that what happens when one's mother is a Tark-"

Fëatho's fingers, found the tail end of his braid, as he growled in the back of his throat. "My mother," he ground out. "Was-"

"Was the weakest of Numenoreans, yet still stronger than you. She had her excuses for being such, but for the son of Lord Mairon," the lord laughed. "There are none."

He was weak. He was. Truly. And Fëatho's fingers coiled tighter in his sleeve, and his hair. He was not his father, and had not his mastery of words.

"It's a bitter irony, that from such a formidable union, a dainty flower was the end result."

"Enough!" Fëatho blindly called upon enraged puissance. It crackled under his fingers, but fear kept him from using it. Fear of what he'd do with it, but he knew naught what to do. He should go to his father. But pride wiped away such a notion. Somehow he had to figure this out on his own, but he just- what needed to be done, he couldn't-he didn't want to do.

"I'll-" His voice warbled, and he swallowed it back too late.

"I'm still waiting for you to explain what it is you'll do." Kemic uttered a faint laugh. "Run to your father perhaps? Kneel before him and reveal in full your shame and weakness?" The man took a brazen step toward him. Then another, and that tumultuous puissance roiled dangerously in his grasp, as he fearfully watched the lord encroach.

"Is that what you'll do Fëatho? Run to Lord Mairon the Great, pathetic in your cowardice, proving to all once and for all that you're just a pretty little flower? Or a weed to be plucked by the stem?" His fingers grazed Fëatho's cheek sordid and repulsive. "It's a wonder he's kept you as long as he has. To no other would he have shown such clemency. Perhaps, little flowers have their uses after all? If only to look upon?"

With a flash of brilliant puissance, he sent the man sprawling backward.

" _Don't touch me."_

The words echoed, ringing along the hall like a the blackest of bells, and he watched as the man raised a hand to his lips, stunned and frightened, that he'd been sent hurtling to the floor without the boy raising so much a finger.

"Touch me or one of mine again…." The threat trailed off. He still couldn't do it. Still couldn't think of anything appropriate, and that ugly repugnant truth only aided the lord's words in spreading their poison deeper.

"I suggest you leave, Lord Kemit." When the man didn't make a motion to move away, that dangerous fey power still moiling about him in bloodied copper, crackled. "Now," he whispered, his voice like ice, as fear and anger and puissance roiled like fire within him.

The man ran, and once he was gone, Fëatho sagged against a wall, sick and tainted. He scratched at his face, trying to remove the memory of that fleeting touch, only to choke on a broken sob when he couldn't.

 _Why? Why? Why can't I?_

Ugly hot tears, filled his eyes, and hastily he swiped at his eyes. Melkor and Valar forbid, someone should come upon him in such a pitiful state after that… He wouldn't be able to handle it, and he knew he wouldn't, regardless of what hopeless lies and façades his father wished him to maintain.

Staggering upright, he pushed himself from the wall, deep down caring very much about his appearance, because he might have been too weak to be a proper lord, but his father would be still be furious if he didn't look the part. It took effort he didn't really have to fuss over his clothes, and smooth the end of his braid, he'd knotted up. All the while, the horrible ugly truth, and the terrible sham of a role he was being forced to play choking and clotting like ice in his chest, until it was an agony to breathe.

Pale hand rubbing at his chest to ease the tightness, he walked defeated and pathetic, down the hall toward one of the many elevating chambers. He would at least do what any half-decent lord would do, if his father so fixated that he continue with pretences-and visit Dirar, and make sure that he was alright.

Flower. He was a little flower, trying to make a living amongst iron and rocks. But all Fëatho had ever wanted to be was a wolf.

 **Footnote for V2:**

 **I will only say this particular opening has been written and rewritten. And just when I think I've come up with something that works better, and gives me all I need to do everything I wish Mordor, this stupid thing won't leave me alone. It just comes back, demanding to be rewritten time and time again so here is the latest version; so far the best written, and most tempting to continue.**

* * *

 **Version 4:**

Feasts in Mordor were a rare occurrence, but seldom as they were, they were opulent and exciting. The Great Hall had been opened, its mighty doors flung wide to welcome guests into its warm fiery bosom.

Great fires roared in their hearths, their flickering flames reflected across the polished marble floor. Brazier's spread out delicious warmth to those who loitered near them, the majority of whom were stragglers, chilled from trekking through the streets and outdoor causeways, from Barad-dûr's other towers.

Ladies and Lords sported their finest furs, and the air was filled the din of laughter, gossip, and scheming. Ever the decadent courtiers sought power at each other's expense, and even for a feast they did not set aside the spinning of their webs. Indeed some had counted upon the occasion to provide an unusual opportunity to hamper their rivals.

To the untrained eye wine flowed freely, and to the unsuspecting ear many a salutation was little more than a genuine greeting. But it was the undercurrent of intrigue that the Dark Lord paid keen attention to, more so than usual as he watched his son navigate the perilous conversations, and tiptoe around the vipers with fanged maws open wide.

Verbal jousting at its finest, and he was not a position to participate. It was an arena he took pleasure competing in, but who in Barad-dûr would dare challenge him? None. He stood above them; a formidable and tarrying lord, not to be trifled with. It pleased him to know none were that bold, but it illustrated how set apart they were. It wasn't merely his table, sitting on a dais, from where he could observe all, but the sport of manipulation and wordplay was lost to him. And he missed it, with all its subtleties, slowly piece by piece excavating valuable information from guarded minds as if it were raw ore to be quarried, quietly insidiously leading those who thought to challenge him to their own defeat.

Instead he was relegated -by status and the fear he inspired- to watch. The few who were bold enough to approach him, and engage him in any shred of conversation, were sycophantic and ultimately dull.

He tapped his fingers, against the table top, to watch his son. The boy was sound mind and keen intellect, but young, naïve, and honest. If there was one thing the Dark Lord would have wished for in a child it was that, but sometimes he wondered if the boy was not too candid. Admittedly one did not need to be exceptionally skilled at lying to bend a conversation or a person to their will, but like everything else it was a tool, better to possess and never rely upon, than to desperately need and be sorely lacking the skill to use.

Of course, if the Lord of Mordor had his way, then there would never be a reason for his son to become so comfortable with deception. But that was neither here nor there. Thus far the boy's feathers had been largely unruffled, but as the Dark Lord watched, one of the room's more venomous vipers struck.

Keenly he listened and observed, sensing the boy would not escape unbound by webs, if he managed to escape at all.

Picture, perfect lord, Fëatho was putting all effort in being. He engaged with all at his table, paying them all close attention, especially King Nizar, whom he tried not pester with questions of his homeland, and travels. But for his part, the King seemed thrilled Mordor's young lord was so keenly interested the happenings of Far Harad.

For all that though Fëatho's gaze periodically fell on the princess. In rich emerald and shining silver she sat. Orodruin's fire in the midst of eruption would have shamefully slogged up the mountain's slopes, because it couldn't have matched the glow of her eyes. She was beautiful to behold, her voice soft and deep, like black velvet, but he had spoken hardly a word to her directly.

In spite of his father's thoughts on the matter and his own feebly whispering intuition, Fëatho was inexplicably drawn to her. He did not know from where, when, or how, only that he was, like a moth to flame, and against such allure he had little chance. But rather than feeling any sense of reservation or trepidation at such a notion, he felt only excitement.

All the same, Fëatho was cautious, warily weighing potential conversation topics, unsure what subject to broach, nor what he would or could say if such an opportunity were to present itself. So he remained quiet, periodically sneaking a glimpses of her, hoping to find the path that lead to her attention, unwilling to move too quickly, should such a thing cause the king offense or anger his father.

Of course whatever he said, would have to be subtle as both his father and her father were present, and he didn't dare risk offending the king, nor angering his father.

"Beautiful isn't she?" The Mouth leaned toward his with a conspiratorial whisper, effectively cutting off Fëatho's train of thought. Scowling Fëatho looked at him, scorning the smirk that curled his lip.

Swiftly he collected himself, burying irritation, behind a wistful little smile. "All people are. Each in their own way." His words were hollow, and both knew it, but he hoped it possessed some level of diplomacy, if nothing else.

The Mouth of Sauron chuckled under his breath and stole a sip of wine.

"Beautiful, wealthy princess from Far Harad; I find it a trifle curious that King Nizar saw fit to bring her here, rather than one of his sons."

Irritably Fëatho inwardly stewed, his inner frustration leaching out to curdle in the downward curl of his lip. He hated being lead, and well enough he could see what it was the Mouth was trying to do, even if he didn't know why, nor where the man hoped for the conversation to end up.

It was a tactic his father used all the time, with far more subtlety and ingenuity, and for some reason Fëatho found himself insulted by the very idea that this man would attempt it.

"And…she's of marriageable age."

White hot jealously rose molten and terrible in Fëatho's breast, as the Mouth offered him a mockingly guileless smile. All too loudly the man's insinuation rang clear, and Fëatho's fingers convulsed into a fist around his spoon.

The Mouth, seemed to silently revel in the frustrated silence he'd conjured, and deliberately poured from himself another drink.

"It would be a great credit to her is the son of Lord Mairon found her worthy of a second glance. A man would be quite lucky to be wed to her then."

Fëatho sat utterly still, in a maelstrom of enraged envy, but what could he possibly say or do? Even if the Mouth were simply being an arse, he touched upon something Fëatho had not wished to think about. The princess was here, for the sole purpose of attracting the attention of one of Mordor's great lords, and Fëatho knew it. The Mouth could marry her if he so chose, and as far as King Nizar was concerned such a match would be a rise in status: that was a simple political fact. All of it made worse, since he knew what his father's opinion of a dalliance between himself and Sawda was. But Fëatho doubted the Mouth would hear such a complaint.

Seething in the midst of a livid maelstrom, he slowly and carefully reached for his drink, as every retort he could give flashed across his mind. Each of them liable to make matters worse.

'Diplomacy!'

'Diplomacy…!' Some far flung rational part of his mind urgently hissed.

Reaching into a suffocating reserve of self-control he plastered a smile to his lips, hoping none at their table had yet noticed something was wrong.

"Yes," Fëatho simpered, sickly sweet. "Such a man, might be thought lucky indeed." The words well sickly sweet from his lips and glossed in venom.

Fingers tremoring, Fëatho sought his wine goblet, and he fought down the urge to glance in Sawda's direction as he drank. Too much fuel he'd given the Mouth's fire already, and he refused to offer more.

How had the man even found out? Had his coveted glances not been discreet enough? Did everyone at the table know? His neck and cheeks were hot, and he prayed they mistook it for the wine. Inside he was furious, wishing that he could have said what he wished, that maintaining decorum hadn't been so important.

Roiling in irritation, he struggled to figure out where he'd faltered. To all he'd given equal attention, or so he thought. Perhaps he'd been too careful, too leery of addressing the princess, directly without also engaging her father? Maybe that had been his undoing, unless he really had done a horrible job of keeping his eyes away from her?

He didn't know, and didn't dare ask, so Fëatho sat stewing in his confusion and ignominity, trying to pay little heed to the Mouth who watched him slyly as he resumed eating.

Deciding he'd had enough of being ignored, the Mouth's voice spoke, and to Fëatho's horror, addressed in fluent Haradrim, Princess Sawda.

In abject dismay and anger he pursed his lips. The Mouth spoke, but Fëatho heard naught the words, his mind and ears struck by the pleasant tinkle of her light laughter. In silence he watched, as the man did what Fëatho had been fantasising about doing himself. She answered the Mouth warmly, her onyx eyes glinting almost deviously, and Fëatho imagined that if Orodruin had been erupting, the mountain's fires would have slogged back up the mountain's flanks and shamefully hidden themselves away in the cracks of doom, for they couldn't have matched the glow of her eyes.

The Mouth nodded. "I see." He smiled at her, and Fëatho's chest tightened as the Mouth turned toward him, reverting once more to Black Speech. "The princess has thirteen brothers, eleven older, and two younger, yet through years of rigorous study, and training, she's become King Nizar's heir." A smile touched the Man's lips that Fëatho didn't like at all. "It must be a pleasant place to sit; so high all must prove themselves your equal. Never will you have to know the struggle of us mere mortals."

To be undermined, insulted, and his own insecurities torn open, and then disregarded, he was beyond furious, and no longer could he sit there and suffer it. Too far. The Mouth had gone too far!

A smile-little more than a thin veneer crackling over an upwelling of fury, curled his lip, and with an air amiability he turned to the man, poised to strike verbally and physically.

Harsh cold air swept over them like a draft, and immediately Fëatho fixed his gaze on his food, fearing his father's wrath. A hush seemed to fall. The din of the feast seemed suddenly muffled, as if he were hearing it through cotton. The table seemed to have gone bitterly quiet, people's eyes downcast, closed, or staring past his right hand side.

Past his panic, recognition blossomed, and he eased. This was not the anger of Mordor's Lord, but the quiet greeting of one of Mordor's highest Lords.

The Mouth was as stiff as the others, his lip curled into a bitter sneer of anger, but Fëatho saw fear too: that same innate dread, that had silenced the others, and furious as he was, he found little pleasure in the man's fear.

He reached within and plucked at thin tendril of fey puissance. Where cold and fear sought a foothold, Fëatho insinuated a subtle warmth, teasing the air with it so that unfurled with the restrained silence of a changing seasons, so that none around him would know his sorcery, but he saw it: the tentative easing of tensions as shoulders straightened, and fingers found their strength.

Smiling faintly, he turned to face this unexpected, but most welcome guest.

Yet even as he did a soft voice spoke: "I make of point of not attending parties."

"Lord Fuinur," Fëatho rose, a trill of genuine pleasure evaporating his soured mood. He grasped the wraith's arm in comradery, forgoing formal greetings. "It has been much too long."

"The length of summer is much too long?"

Amusement flashed across abyssal black eyes, as he clasped Fëatho's arm in turn.

As soon as they let go, Fuinur surreptitiously drew back, uncomfortable being so close to a fire, for Fëatho was certainly that. But against such radiance the wraith stood proudly in his grey raiment, once a mighty lord among the Black Numenoreans, and a king of Harad.

But all the others around would have seen was black cloak, with hood pulled up, in which no face was visible.

King Nizar and his other guests he'd been entertaining, were no longer sitting in silent horror. At worse they now spoke in furtive hushes, casting Fuinur suspicious glances or staring at him outright, perhaps, trying to catch a glimpse of the face that must surely have hidden within?

"Lord Fuinur," He smiled, deciding it was long past time the men stopped ogling his…he wasn't sure what to think of Fuinur. It was a stretch to call him friend, but they were more than mere acquaintances. He was the wraith Fëatho knew best, but wasn't fond of. They're relationship was...complicated.

"Here sits King Nizar, most high among the kings of Far Harad. He a proud warrior, a tamer of mighty Mumukil, and a scholar. And it is for him that this grand feast is being had." Beside him Fuinur bowed pressing a fisted hand to his lips as he did so, ever proper and well versed in the subtleties of many cultures. Fëatho quietly observed him and making note of the King's raised eyebrow. Clearly he hadn't expected such a thing from some lord of Mordor he had not heard of until that very moment.

"This is Lord Fuinur, one of the Dark Lord's chief advisors. He has been away from the Tower for some time do to family affairs, and it's truly a blessing that you should return on such an auspicious evening." He turned to the wraith with a smile.

Fëatho wasn't lying. For much of the last two years, Fuinur's time had been spent in Minas Morgul, and the Nazgul did refer to each other as brethren. Though Fuinur did have true kindred as well, his cousin was also one among the Nine, and so, what he said to the King was not entirely dishonest. He'd never outright lie, but Fuinur's true nature was best kept a secret, for a variety of reasons, and already he had in place an explanation for Lord Fuinur's strangeness, born again of nothing more than bent truth.

"This is his daughter, and heir, Princess Sawda."

Around the table he presented Lord Fuinur to these mighty men of foreign lands, and it seemed at last some semblance of decorum, and more importantly, normalcy returned.

The air was warm again, limned in the faintest sheen autumn, and the world no longer seemed deafened, and when introductions were finished, he turned to Fuinur, eager to speak with him. Or rather pester him to the ends of the earth for details of his exploits, but much he couldn't ask here.

"How were your travels?" Fëatho asked. "How are your brothers and cousin? What was Erebor like? Have you seen Herumor? Any word from-? "

"My lord." Fuinur, scowled. "Which among those ought I to answer first." He'd know

"All of them." An impish grin curled Fëatho's lip. "In truth, I want to know how you're doing, and how your journey was. Then I want to hear about Herumor, and Hespar if you've had word from him."

Something in Fuinur's face darkened, and then disappeared, too quickly for Fëatho to be sure if it was in response to his errant cousin or Hespar. It could have been either, or both. Herumor and Fuinur rarely saw anything eye to eye, from what little Fëatho had heard over the years. But it could have been Hespar who had been cause of his soured expression. Brethren they may have referred to themselves, but if the rumours were true they possessed for each other about as much brotherly compassion of rabid bears.

"My journey to my brothers' abode was uneventful. Things in the south are as they have always been: typically frustrating. Herumor's…you've met him…."

Fëatho grinned. "Did you play cards?"

The wraith's face darkened, and Fëatho had to fight back a laugh at his expense. "It wouldn't be time with family, if I wasn't finagled into a game, by Mordor's resident gambling addict." The wraith sighed. "The journey to Erebor, it rained. My entire excursion around Long Lake it rained. It poured. It rained some more. It was abysmal. The day I reached the gates of the city proper it finally clearer. The journey back, the sun returned, and all the rain prior made it terribly humid. My escort was worn out, and I think I've never seen men so thrilled to return to Mordor."

The Nazgul glanced at the high table where the Lord of Mordor sat. "I did hear much that would intrigue your ever inquisitive ears, and I would tell. But not here. It's not for your Hardarim friends, but for our lord I've attended. But quickly before I leave you, tell me how you fare. The Mouth certainly seems as amiable as ever." He added with a sardonic quirk of his lips.

While relations between the Nine were subject to conjecture among Mordor's highest circles, the feud between the Dark Lord's chief emissary and Mordor's elite was known well, though few dared to bring it up.

"I'm well." Fëatho smiled.

The wraith's mouth was a flat line. "Indeed. I suspect their's more to the truth than that-?"

For a moment Fëatho gaped wide eyed, breath hitching. More to himself than to the wraith he grumbled. "Is there no one I can hide from?"

"Certainly." Fuinur answer. "But not from all. I'm far too perceptive, the Mouth too experienced, and Lord Mairon…" the wraith's voice dropped to reverent whisper. "He's…."

Fëatho nodded, understanding completely what Lord Fuinur was trying to say, and failing to. There were no words to describe the lord of the Black Land. He was so above and beyond everything.

As if to prove the point further, the Eye, that had been present on the edges of Fëatho's senses, turned to them in full, as if guessing the nature of their conversation. At the edge of the dais on which his father's table's sat, the pair bowed.

Ensconced in gloom and shadow, the Lord of Mordor smiled, inwardly laughing at the expense of his son and messenger. He stole a sip of wine looking down at them, and they suffered the Eye's revelry and mockery, before it flitted to observe something else.

They stood. The Eye's smile still tangible. And Fëatho exhaled, not daring to comment on what had just passed. "I must return."

"We'll speak soon." Fuinur promised. They clasped arms again, the wraith hiding his grimace as the child's cheat burned. Then the boy turned away, returning to his guests, and the wraith cautiously approached the table.

It was good his master was in a good mood, and he feared what horror his words would bring. So rare it was, and yet, some truths needed to be heard, and with great care he approached, one of only two open seats at the table. It had been reserved for him, and the other with a wine glass before it, had been Fëatho's at some point.

Again he bowed, not so low this time, but just as reverent, and with an apathetic gesture his master bid him to sit.

For a long moment the Dark Lord silence reeled between them, as his master stirred a steaming cup of tea, and plucked a slice of apple from his plate.

In the darkness the Lord of Mordor surrounded himself with, Fuinur found some semblance of peace. His vision was clearer, no longer blinded by Fëatho's coppery fire light, or the torches and regular flames dancing hatefully around the hall.

"Tell me, lord Fuinur, what urgency brought you flying to my gate in such haste you nearly killed your horse." The Dark Lord cut through the illusion of security, and the wraith would have swallowed if he could have. Instead he shifted, stealing himself, as best he could, before lifting his chin and squaring his shoulders.

"I confess, I feared Lord Fëatho would pry more than he did." The wraith stalled. "I wished to give nothing away until I'd spoken with you lord."

Fuinur paused, snatching a precious moment to gather his wits. He would have great need of them.

"I know not where to begin, so if I may, I wish to ask a question of my lord." There was no hiding the dread Fuinur felt as he dared to meet his Master's fiery gaze.

Under his silver studded hood, the Dark Lord frowned, sensing his messenger's grave discomfort. "You may."

Grateful for the indulgence, Fuinur owed his head. "I wish to know if thou wouldst rather here the bad news, the worse news, or the news that is eviler still first."

The air about the Dark Lord shifted, sharpened, like a honed blade poised to strike, and Fuinur did his best not to flinch.

"King Dain, has yet again refused terms." With shocking aplomb the Lord of Mordor spoke, but Fuinur, perceptive, too much so for his own good, new that under the cool façade lurked truly menacing frustration.

"Yes lord. I told him, that once more will I return, and if he has not come to new found wisdom by then… but if I may be so bold, I fear the stubbornness and folly of one Dwarven king shall prove the least of thy concerns."

The Dark Lord wiped his fingers on a napkin, cleaning his fingers of non-existent crumbs. "Speak plainly Fuinur."

"My Lord," the wraith beseeched in a pleading whisper. He shivered as the hooded head turned to look down at him once more. The full weight of those piercing eyes still mercifully absent, but he could dally no more. "Hespar sought me out while I was in Dale. I've never seen him so urgent or so grateful to see me. My Lord…."

Where he sat, Fëatho's scalp prickled, as the Eye's good humour vanished. Malicious and furious it twisted toward the west. Fëatho feared both for the wraith, and what it was the wraith was saying. What had happened? What was wrong? Panic set in. His heart leaped to his throat, but he kept a smile plastered to his face.

Beside him the Mouth glanced at him, sensing the Eye's wrath, and the man's grey eyes darted to the High Table as much as they dared, before he shifted to stare down at his food. Even their guests were falling silent, and Fëatho hastily dredged more puissance from within, and as he spoke he breathed soothing calm tranquillity into the air.

He focused on the torches and fires, encouraging them to burn brighter, to dance higher, to keep the dark at bay, until the air was incandescent with serenity, or as much so as the air in Barad-dûr could ever be.

With great care he stretched his spell across the Great Hall, pulling it like a sheet over the assembly, snuggling them all in its warmth, and he limned himself in glorious orange light, making himself the island of calm in the centre of the storm, this thin spell no more than a lacy veil to hide the menace that brewed silent and deadly all around them.

But Fëatho could not hide from it, nor dull his senses, and his skin was prickled by goose bumps, as he sat trying to keep from trembling; unable to escape as his guests did. And so he sat praying the Eye didn't so much graze the edges of his senses, and taking great care not to encroach upon the darkness congealing around the high table.

Emboldened, by the peaceful air, the Mouth continued speaking with the princess, and smiling sickly sweet, Fëatho endured.

 **Footnote for V4:**

 **This is another one, that I have written and rewritten, and rewritten some more, because something in it begs to be told, and I can't seem to find the words to so properly. Or I've run out creativity and have gotten stuck in a rut.**

 **There's an alternate version or two where Fëatho is charged by Sauron to oversee the preparation of this feast. In one version he's enthused by the idea. In another he's less than thrilled, feeling like he's useless and nothing more than a glorified steward, but begrudgingly sees to it anyways. In both his initial reaction to such a command is to ask who died, as his only previous feast was held the day of his mother's funeral.**

 **In another one, you see him spend ample time with the stewards, and planners, as he learns what it takes to plan such a thing, and by extension what factors must be considered when making decisions as a ruler.**

 **Again this another attempted opening that gives insight to the time this story is set, by using Gloin's tale of the fell messenger at the Council of Elrond for reference, setting this story much closer to the wraith's hunt for the Ring, and the afore mentioned council.**

* * *

 **Author's Note: So that concludes the scrapped openings portion of this segment, which was brought to you by Redundancy and Longwinded Author's be continued, when I start spewing all the guts and a middle bits in the next segment. Don't worry there'll be plenty of ANs there too. *sighs, and slams head on desk*  
**


	4. Drabble: Withered Lilies

**Withered Lilies**

 _The girl's eyebrow rose and bold amusement curled across her lips. "Take me as a prisoner to Mordor, if that's your wish, my lord. But give me leave, Tar-Mairon…" The princess conspiratorially stood on her toes straining for his pointed ear, still too far above her. Her voice lowered, silky smooth, and her grey eyes flickered with wicked mirth.  
_

 _Half amused and half irritated Tar-Mairon's, bowed his golden head, in shared conspiracy. But inside he imagined casting her from the balcony. "I'll see to it that Gorgoroth becomes a rose garden."_

 _He laughed then, bitter and derisive. "Pray tell, why I should want that, Ar-Ephelazra."_

" _You're an artist. The desire to be surrounded by beauty is inherent." She answered with a shrug. "In this we're not so different. Only the media that we use." Her smile was, softer then. Genuine. She looked away, gazing out, across the stunning vista of white towers, swaying green trees, and boiling clouds in the pale blue sky._

" _If not a rose garden, perhaps fragrant wisteria to hang at your window?"_

 _Tar-Mairon chuckled. "I think not."_

" _Perhaps something beautiful then? Deceptively, manipulatively, and terribly beautiful?" She asked. "But perilous to those who disrespect it, or those mishandle it-?"_

"Disrespectful? L _ike yourself, princess?" His voice was quiet, amusement and curling at his lip. But his golden eyes, glimmered with something dark, and for a fleeting moment she looked away.  
_

" _Even so," she conceded quietly. "But would not such a flower be more appealing? Something with the power to save, and the power to destroy, but stands tall, regal, fair, and seemingly innocent? Would a garden of flowers such as these, serve a befitting compromise?"_

 _His eyes glinted as he stared down at her. "What manner of flowers are these?"_

" _Taxonomists call them Superb Glory, and they are indigenous to Far-Harad. Across Arda they are called Glory Lilies. The locals know them as Flame Lilies, for their fiery hues and the manner in which their petals ripple and rise like flames. Higher and higher, nearly glowing in their vibrance, until dying- not by browning and wilting, but by dimming like cooling embers."_

 _Ar-Ephelazra reached for the vase, plucking one such vibrant flower from the water, and raising it for him to see. She tilted her head, looking at him, something knowing and taunting in her eyes._

" _I've heard tell the people plant gardens full of them in honour of their fire god."_

 _Boldly she rose to the balls of her feet, and daringly, slid the beautiful gold and crimson flower behind his ear. His eyes narrowed._

" _I prefer to think of it, as the deadly beauty that it is. The perfect means by which to remember, that a wolf in sheep's wool is still a wolf."_

 _Tar-Mairon snatched her wrist as she withdrew. "It is a bold and daring sheep that would come so close to a predator's jaws." His grip was not painful, nor was it particularly tight, but she knew from experience it was immovable, and unbreakable. Suspended as she was, she dared to meet his gaze, and his eyes burned like fire._

" _Perhaps, when I have died, you'll tell your flock of beguiled sheep that the deceased shall be served with a sweet orange sauce? Assuming you should see fit to grace me with even a passing mention in one of your sermons, of course."_

 _He lowered her wrist, releasing her. "Dear princess, you have grown very bold." His voice was a deathly whisper._

 _In defiance or stupidity, she raised her chin, refusing to be cowed, even when she could clearly see the fangs behind the amiable smile. "To have dealings with you I have had to. If it displeases you, perhaps you should have given more thought to the consequences of your facilities and exploits."_

 _With a snarl he grabbed her, and she hung rigid and terrified, before pride and anger yanked her by the neck. "If it troubles you so, then exercise your capacity to change it." His fingers dug, painfully into her arms, and the mocking, false air of amiability splinted and fell like shards of glass. But so had hers and they hovered, teetering as their dangerous game turned truly perilous._

" _We are here now, by your hand," she added, calmer, but possibly suicidal. "And, my lord, you know this."_

 _Abruptly he burst into laughter. Stiffly, and hardly daring to breathe, she remained in his grasp, startled by the sudden shift in humour. His fingers slid from her upper arms, and still he laughed._

 _It gently died, and Tar-Mairon's eyes were gleaming, but unreadable when he met her uncertain gaze. His smirk though, was positively frightening, and she swallowed, fighting back the urge to step away from him._

 _The dying sun through highlights of red and orange in golden hair, and the flower nestled behind his ear burned. He was beautiful, and he was terrible: the contrast so painfully obvious in that moment, she was left floundering._

" _To Mordor I will take you, if you wish it." He gently pulled the flower from his hair, and his gold eyes flickered down to the beautiful bloom pinched between his fingers. "Though I fear you shall not enjoy it."_

 _Scoffing the princess turned away. "No. But you might." Fear and anger cooled, leaving her apathetic, if not brazen. "At the very least you'll have yet more fire to name yourself god of."_

" _That was not my doing." Tar-Mairon's voice was whimsical. "The people of Far-Harad, heard tales of my citadel in Rhûn from traders. It was surrounded by fire, and upon seeing it, they who named me such…and seeing many of the evils that plagued the land cast screaming, therein, only reinforced the misnomer."_

 _Ar-Ephelazra's ebony brow rose, and turned to him, absently sweeping her plaited hair from her shoulder. "Evils? From what did the men of Rhûn you to save them from?"_

 _The Maia hummed, and the flower twirled in his fingers, as his head turned. "Morgoth's former servants, were not kind. Their ruinous ambitions and squabbles cost the lands economically, ecologically, and politically. I came. I built. I summoned them to my side, but they did not wish to be my vassals, and I had not expected as much. Patience and mercy spent, I tore them from their pitiful keeps, broke their delicate thrones, and choked them with their pretty little crowns."_

" _You-?"_

 _Tar-Mairon's expression was nostalgic, his smile genuine, but sickly with cruel amusement. "These great lords among Melkor's folk, made hovels from themselves throughout the south and east, and I realized I could not drive them out, if I remained in my fortress, so I departed Rhûn, giving up my claim to the land, and built for myself a fortress greater in Mordor, where no men dwelt. This they saw as an act of pure altruism, and I confess I never disabused them of the notion." He was smiling at the flower in his fingers. "The fortress, still stands majestic and the fires about it burn as they ever did, but it has been many a year since I have travelled thither, and stepped within its gates. It is used now as a place of negation and reprieve by diplomats. Though for a time, one Rhûn's greatest kings, Khamûl made it his abode."_

 _His eyes met hers, and his lip curled into something mocking. "Have I shocked you Little Lamb?" Tar-Mairon turned to face her fully. The sunset flickered in his brilliant hair. "I suppose, it's reasonable. After all it would be of no benefit, if the Westernesse acknowledged the good done by their enemy. It's hard to paint someone as a villain when paying homage to their heroism."_

 _He bent until they were almost at eye level, and she swallowed, wishing he'd back away. His voice was honey, his eyes were like perfect golden coins, and his hair was like the sun. The flower in his hand twirled lazily, as he stared at her._

 _In her chest, Ar-Ephelazra's heart was pounding. Its thudding beat rang in her ears, deafening, and she bit her lip, hating the flush of heat that rose to her cheeks. Again he was bating her, beckoning her, tempting her, and it was so hard to resist. Forget Glory Lilies! Tar-Mairon was far more insidious! She took a faltering step back, desperate for space, and his smile became all the sweeter and patronizingly sympathetic._

" _What say you, Highness?" His fingers grazed her cheek._

 _For a moment she stood as a statue, frozen without the ability to speak or think. His fingers dusted stray ebony strands curling at her ear, and the flower shifted, reappearing as a spot of living flame in her peripheral vision. Deftly he slipped it behind her ear as she had put it behind his, the gesture equally mocking, but for different reasons._

 _Swallowing, Numenor's princess narrowed her eyes, and scraped her pride into a shield before herself. If this was the game he wished to play, so be it. Carefully she tamped down the butterflies in her stomach, and ignored the harsh throbbing pulse in her throat._

" _You are, as the flower that now rests in my hair. Glorious, superb, and lethal. Capable of easing pain and suffering, but equally capable of inflicting it, if not more prone to doing so."_

 _Inhaling to collect her wits she continued. "Its roots look irrefutably like potatoes, and its seeds like small kidney beans. It teases every sense of perception to lure in its victims, and to defend itself, just as you do, Lord."_

 _Tar-Mairon withdrew and they stood, simply staring at each other, her trying to read him, while having no idea what he could possibly find of interest in her eyes, when he had learned long ago all he could have wished to know. Silence like treacle spread between them, heavy and weighted, and becoming increasingly uncomfortable._

 _With great care, she reached for the flower, fearful of harming it, only to freeze as Tar-Mairon's hand moved as if to reach for her._

" _Tar-Mairon?"_

" _Tis nothing." He looked away. "There's something I must see to."_

 _Taking that as her cue to leave, Ar-Ephelazra removed the flower and returned it to its vase. Almost happily its yellow, red, and orange brethren seemed to part for it, and inwardly she smiled. Truly they were beautiful flowers._

" _Shall I look for you at dinner?" She asked quietly, not looking away from the exquisite blossoms on their pale green stems._

" _Of course." Tar-Mairon's voice swept of over her, with a hint of emotion she couldn't identify. Wonderingly she looked up at him. "It's a poor and hungry wolf that risks its prey to chance and the voracity of others."_

 _Ar-Ephelazra laughed, unsure what it was exactly that amused her so. Perhaps it was the possible glint of amusement in his brilliant golden eyes, or maybe it was something in the way that he had said it._

 _Grinning, she dipped her head. "Sometimes I think thee, may be a shepherd yet." Without waiting for his response she departed, and Tar-Mairon frowned after her._

 _Was he not?_

 _His eyes fell to the vase, the fiery blossoms, burning on their green stems, every single one, from bud to aged and worn out blossom looking like little flames. It was he conceded, a fitting flower, and Gorgoroth's arid plateau, set ablaze by a field of living flames could have been beautiful, if it were not where his armies sheltered themselves from Orodruin's terrible fury._

 _Besides, Mordor was much too cold, for a plat acclimated to Far-Harad's blazing sun. But he did wonder, if he were allow himself temporary loss of sense and wit; granting her leave, if his little bride-to-be would have proven brazen enough to try._

 **~/~**

The lilies clinging to their trellis were brown and withered, stricken by lack of water and neglect. Curled up, Featho was nestled beside the massive, but shallow planter. His warm resting on the ceramic rim, and his pudgy little face, hidden from view and buried in the crook of his arm.

The Lord of Mordor looked from his son and back to the fading plants that not so long were alight with flames of their own making. But there was nothing now, save their dry brittle stems, and the tubers, only good now for the extraction of their poison.

Without his wife's care they had withered, and in that moment something in his chest tightened, and everything in his stomach curdled, as his eyes fell to the child, and instead of boy of flesh and blood, he saw withered decaying sinews hanging sagging limp and grey from brittle bones.

"Frum-ob Stroh!" He snatched the boy from the ground. "Get those out of here! Get them out! Now!" He shuddered, clutching his son to his chest, trying to rid himself of that image. But it was there festering, and with it a horrid question raised its ugly head.

' _Would he fade like the plants without his mother's care?'_

"No, no, no." He moaned, stiffening abruptly when he felt how still the boy was in his arms. Ice rocketed along his spine, horror and fear escaping as nothing more than a gasp. His heart thudded as he stood, suddenly terrified by what he may have been cradling to his chest: his warm living son of flesh and blood, or the skeletal grey remains of what his boy had been.

Heart in his throat he forced himself to look down and see, only sag in relief as he met the gaze of grey eyes, clear, focused, and bright.

"Featho, Little Wolf, did you touch those plants?" He grasped one of the boy's hands, searching his nails and tiny fingers for dirt.

' _It was not real. It was not.'_

"No." The boy's answered softly.

The Lord of Mordor, took the boy's other hand, and inspected its tiny digits and creases for dirt too.

"Father, you're shaking." Worry saturated the child's voice, and he fingers held tight to his hand after the Lord of Mordor tried to release him. "Father-"

"Promise me, you'll never touch them."

The Eye shifter, and Dark found whom he wished.

"I promise."

It was a promise the boy would keep, as the Lord of Mordor quietly commanded his servants rid the tower of all his wife's plants. They were dead, their beauty spent, and as for the Fire Lilies; their poison would be extracted and stored against the day it should be needed.

* * *

 **Author's Note: So chapters four and five are going swimmingly, and I've delved into chapter six…so…you know whenever I can sort out chapter three, things'll be good. ROTFLOL**

 **The irony hurts. And Frum-ob Stroh is a rough translation of Featho's name in Black Speech. Yeah…anyways.**


	5. Drabbble:Valentine? Sequal Thing?

**Author's Note: So it's Valentine's Day, and in the spirit of 'love, lust, hearts, flowers, stars, and horseshoes, clovers and blue moons, hourglasses, rainbows, and tasty red balloons,' I decided to write this silly drabble. I thought it high time, that Fëatho get a girl. Of course this was very spur of the moment, and my internet was down, so this is late. But, yeah, have a happy Valentine's Day.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't Own.**

* * *

 **Under the Darkening Sky**

The fires burned bright, like cherry stars in the dark. It reminded him of Gorgoroth from afar, when the Uruks were ants, and the tiny campfires stood out like so many tiny candles. It was like that, but the darkness was darker, and the fires weaker. The situation was dire next to the inconsequential study of a curious youth. Fëatho stood sickly pale against the cold, shivering and shuddering under the blanket as he shakily walked to the nearest among them.

A few elves scowled, and one sneered, as he sat. But he was too cold too care. He wanted to get warm, but he couldn't. Not since Morgoth. It taxed too heavily to try. Whatever the Dark Vala had done, he'd done it well, and fell sorcery had wormed its way deep into his fëa, and there it festered and rotted, corrupting and mutilating as it pleased.

His back froze, and his front blistered. The fire too hot, and the chill air too cold.

The elves muttered and chatted amongst themselves, and he for the most part tuned them out.

His father had gone, and Fëatho was both relieved and worried by that. Their falling out had been a bitter one, and things were complicated and awkward as they never had been before. But he missed the familiar presence amid sea of formidable Elves, Maiar, and worst of all Valar.

Fëatho shuddered, hunkering next to fire. His joints ached, and the fire scalded. His leg was especially bothersome, as old scars and injuries acted up. But it was suffer the heat, or succumb to the cold, and so he sat enduring the heat- shuddering, and gritting his teeth, unable to eke out a shred of comfort.

At length his father returned; dark, grim, and silent and took a seat next to him, adding to the conflagration that scorched his skin, and he sidled away. The elves altogether left wanting to be nowhere near a former dark lord, and Morgoth's more recently acquired former lieutenant.

His father watched him, wordlessly, golden eyes appraising and analysing every minute detail, but he had no words to offer. There was nothing to say. Ruin, Morgoth had wrought beyond his skill to fix.

The fire danced red in his father's hair. It was a sight, Fëatho still had not yet reconciled with. It was one thing to hear that his father had once been fair, but it was another to see it first-hand after years of dark cloaks and miasmic darkness.

Golden eyes met grey, but Fëatho looked away, not sure he wanted to look close enough to perceive anything in their molten depths.

A breeze wafted across the encampment, and to Fëatho it may well have been a blizzard.

"You may be more comfortable inside."

It was the first words his father had spoken in hours, and Fëatho looked at him. He was still staring; expression carefully neutral, and eyes inscrutable.

"I was inside. It was dark. I get colder in the dark." He fisted his fingers in his blanket, and hunched in on himself, as another gentle zephyr raked languid icy fingers across his scalp. "I don't like the dark." He added, as if his father hadn't already guessed as much.

"Soon Little…" his father trailed off, and Fëatho's heart clenched to hear his childhood name slip from the former dark lord's mouth. "Soon, all shall be dark. Look and admire the stars. One by one they vanish."

His father pointed to the east, and the sky seemed emptier. Something inside twisted like a knife, and he couldn't stifle the gasp. He balked as his father reached out. The pale artisan hand grasping nothing but the air between them.

"Please, don't." He rasped, fingers digging into the blanket to keep it from falling from his shoulders, as he leant away, watching the fingers hanging empty between them. The fire was all he could stand. Anything more would be too much. Mercifully his father's hand retracted, settling placid, and elegant in his lap.

Awkward silence reeled bitterly between them, thick with words unsaid, and Fëatho sat in eager anticipated at the thought of it being broken. But it didn't work like that. You couldn't attempt to kill your own father, and then make light-hearted chitchat a few days later. Reality didn't work like that. And reality would soon disappear.

More stars on the horizon had vanished, as something wholly abyssal and evil encroached. Soon it would be upon them, and all would be unmade, and destroyed in a violent cataclysm of power.

Fëatho made to stand, staggering, as the stiff knee in his mangled leg gave under him. But he fought, and found his balance.

"Fëatho-"

His father stood up behind him.

"It's my leg. I'm alright."

"It bothers you still?"

Fëatho turned with a raised eyebrow. "It was shattered into a bazillion places. We both knew I'd be lucky if I regained enough equilibrium to walk unaided, and lucky I was." He smiled softly. "We each have our scars, and we must own them…as you once said we must own the names that others bestow upon us. They mark us and we do not own the, then the world shall use them to harm us. Scars are no different."

He held his smile a little longer. "I'm alright." Shakily he tugged the blanket tighter about himself, and turned away. "I'll return soon. I just need to see someone."

She was in one of the healing tents, rummaging through a case.

"Fëatho," her voice was light, but she was deep and dark, abyssal blue. In her presence he sank to the blackest bottom of the deepest ocean, where fish winked like fireflies in the dark, or held little lanterns before them, like Eärendil carrying precious little silmarills. It place of rich indigo; eternal, endless, and timeless- he was hopelessly enthralled by such a placid and beautiful place.

She was like a river, and he was caught in the current, hopelessly adrift.

Chill air seeped into his bones, and clotted his insides with hoarfrost. Malignant affliction curdled copper light in brown choking embers, but he thought it a fair trade as he stared at her, bent over rummaging through her chest, silver hair spilling over her should like a waterfall.

"Do you need something?" She asked, rising, with an armful of cloth. She set on a nearby cot and approached him. Her eyes were silver-blue, and kind, but frowning as she appraised him. He felt terrible. He probably looked terrible, and her hand reaching out to him all but confirmed it. He shuddered as her too warm fingers rested against his forehead.

She clucked her tongue, displeased by the sheen of sweat that dampened her finger tips. "You're getting colder. I'll see if I have something that can-"

He caught her fingers as she withdrew grinding his teeth as they burned in once fiery hand.

"The stars are vanishing. I want you to see them, in all their silver glory, before they are utterly lost. Would you join me?" He let go of her fingers, ignoring the embarrassment curling in his stomach. Her eyes, blue and silver, wise, compassionate, and intuitive flickered like diamond light on the surface of an ebony pool.

It had cost him to come here, and she knew it. Yet here he stood, a dying firefly glowing its last rays of failing light.

"I will look upon them with you."

His heart fluttered, and he reached for her fingers, biting on his lip as he smiled, against the pain; secretly hoping she'd said yes because she genuinely wanted too, and not because she'd feel guilty to turn him away.

Clutching his blanket to his chest with one hand, he led her beyond the tent, and together they stood fingers entwined peering up into the darkening sky.

* * *

 **Author's Note: This deals with a much older Fëatho. He's still a fidget, but after everything that'll happen to him in Young Wolf, he's grown into someone more assertive and more sure of himself in some regards. He's still kind as can be, but…his compassion has been tempered by cynicism…to a degree.**

 **This fic stems from some ideas I've had for a potential sequel. A sequel that I may not actually write. I tend to dislike writing sequels, but if I'm feeling inspired enough I may take a shot at it. I make no promises.**

 **If Young Wolf, is the story of a young man trying to save his father, and finding his place in the world. Then this would be the story of a father trying to save his son, and reconciling with the world. Essentially, it's the same story, told from the opposite direction, and set during Dargor Dagorath. (A certain Numenorean princess may make a cameo during the second music. ;) )**


	6. CH3: Middle BitsEnd Bits

**Author's Note: This is called Wolf scraps, and as such it's time I put some proper scraps here.**

 **What follows are all the things I had intended to write for the third chapter, but for various reasons opted not to include.**

 **CH3: Middle Bits  
**

* * *

 **In which the Feast is introduced differently. I have no idea how many alternate introductions I have. None are as good as what I ultimately decided on.**

"A feast?" The question fell disbelievingly to the floor, and the Dark Lord shrouded as he always was in gloom chuckled. But Fëatho was too surprised and too excited to mind the mocking lilt in his master's voice.

"That is was I said."

Feasts in the Dark Tower were a rare occurrence, and Fëatho could scarcely recall much of the last one, and what little he did remember, snuffed his excitement. And it was with worry and discontent he now looked upon the polished ebony floor with.

"What do I need to do my lord?"

While overseeing a feast was a sign, his lord was willing to entrust him more important duties, he felt like nothing more than a glorified steward. Too firmly he still held to the notion his time could be better spent infiltrating their enemies, and wreaking havoc from within.

"This is on you. It is high time you became acquainted with your allies within your home and abroad. Speak to the emissaries, learn all you can of Far-Harad's rich heritage, and use that as your template. It is for King Nizar's benefit. I would also encourage seeking out the stewards, and getting their advice, as they have seen a few feasts more than you. But ultimately when, where, and how are decisions you have to make."

Fëatho frowned, as question upon question rose to the fore.

"Shall the feast be held in throne room, or should the great hall be opened? Can this really be afforded? Aren't imports of raw ore from Rhun arriving soon? What about-?"

The Dark Lord raised a hand. "I'm appointing this task to you. Find the treasurer and deduce for yourself what Mordor's coffers can afford."

"Yes lord." Fëatho reigned himself in, before asking one more question. The one he needed to know the answer to most. "My lord, has someone died?"

Heavy silence dropped like iron between them. And it seemed the Lord of Mordor was momentarily taken aback, but quickly his father recovered. "Not all feasts are thrown for the deceased." There was a strange edge to his voice that Fëatho couldn't place. But carefully he nodded, eyes never rising from the floor, as he felt himself relax. Without guilt he could look on this feast with excitement and anticipation. Swiftly those feelings returned, budding to life, and he hesitated.

"Will you be in attendance lord?"

"I should hope so. I'd hate to think I'd be uninvited to a feast in my own hall." There was a faint hint of amusement in his voice.

"Still there are few things to address. In the near future, dignitaries from Rhun will be here, and they'll need to be accommodated. And my messenger from Erebor will be returning."

Fëatho's heart fluttered with undo excitement. He carefully concealed his smile, but it glittered brightly in his eyes. Fuinur was to return!

Lord Fuinur, was the only one among the Nazgûl who Fëatho saw with any frequency, and he was curious was to what stories the wraith would have to tell of the dwarves he'd visited.

"You have much to attend to, Little Wolf."

"Of course lord!" He bit down on his lip, swallowing the shrill cadence of untrammelled excitement and after a moment said more calmly. "All shall be seen to immediately."

He rose, bowed, and scuttled from the throne room, his lord's faint laughter trailing behind him.

* * *

 **Textiles:**

 **(I don't know what I was thinking either.)**

The boy was slumped sleeping at his desk. Ink, smeared across the page in wide ebony streak, where his hand had slid through it. And Ikshu paused, worriedly frowning passed the man he was speaking to. As soon as the man started to turn his head, curious as to what Ikshu was looking at, the Chamberlain caught himself, and quickly resumed the conversation.

"Red would be traditional, but my master is not the average Mordorin Lord. His rooms should reflect that. He's expressed interest in in cream and gold accents, but seems conflicted in terms of a main theme. Have you any suggestions?"

The merchant's eyes flicked back to him, and as a servant girl passed Ikshu waved her over. "Onya, shut the door so our guest doesn't see that he's asleep," he whispered so the merchant wouldn't hear. With a wordless nod the girl returned to her original task.

"Well," the merchant said. "A great range of colours compliment gold and cream. You'd be hard pressed to go wrong. If the young lord wishes to break from tradition, then I have a range of greens and blues that have a great deal of potential. If expense is of no great concern, then I'd go so far as to suggest purple. There is no colour more noble or bold."

Onya slipped passed them and into the bedchamber proper, letting the door swing closed enough that she and Fëatho were shielded from view.

"Purple is indeed fine, but I think it would be too dark, for our purposes. After all my lord wishes to lighten the space and break the austerity of what are very dark walls. But I'll take a look at your greens and blues."

Swatches of fabric were pulled from the merchant's bag. And he frowned, as he reached for his cup. "Might it be possible to have more of that Haradrim coffee?"

Ikshu nodded. "Of course. Onya, could you see to that."

"Right away-cream or sugar?"

"Oh, yes please." The merchant smiled. The girl nodded and left.

Ikshu flipped through various swatches of sample fabrics, until at length he came across what he thought was something his master would approve of.

Conversation was sparse as the merchant idly drank his coffee, ruined by an absurd am

"He wants what are essentially curtains to frame various art pieces."

"And the art will have a need to match the fabric as well? Would it not be better to choose something plainer-?"

"The art has already been bought. My lord wasted little time in procuring it." Ikshu said, eyeing what he thought a pleasing pattern of pale blue and gold. "Much of it is seascapes and ships, and this reminds me of sunlight on water. I think he'd like it."

The merchant, tilted his head. "I would not have guessed his lordship possessed an interest in such things."

"Lord Fëatho has a great many interests," Ikshu said. "And he comes from a long line mariners. It's only natural he'd possess a special affinity for the sea."

"His mother was Numenorean-"

"Indeed," Ikshu cut him off, but undaunted the man continued.

"I had nearly forgotten. She was Mordor's treasured Dark Lady for so long, it's easy to forget she'd ever been anything else." His voice became hushed. "It's a shame what happened to her."

"-What do you think?" Ikshu held up a piece of fabric to distract the salesman.

That is a fantastic decision," the merchant smiled. "I'll have measurements taken as soon as possible, and I will return with designs as well as an official price." Eager to get started he hastily grabbed his various books of swatches. "I'll send men here tomorrow to get measurements.

* * *

 **Fight Between Featho and Ikshu:**

 **This scene has many versions. This is version 1:  
**

 **(My favourite between the two I decided to share.)**

What it was that woke him, Ikshu could never say. Whether it was intuition or an errant sound that made him slip from his bed and creep out to investigate he was never certain. A thick door stood between his lord's sleeping quarters and the servant's quarters, but all the same he'd risen, and his heart fluttered uneasily as he found Fëatho's bed empty.

He heard the faucet in the washroom, and that was not so strange a thing, and he deliberated returning to his bed, when he thought he heard the faint hiss of pain. It was soft, it was likely the water he knew, but he stood tentative, waiting, listening, and he jerked as something crashed.

It was followed by a series of silent fretful curses.

"My lord?" He was at the door, before he was aware of the conscious decision to move. And for what seemed a beat too long there was nothing but silence and the sound of running water.

"I'm alright." Fëatho sounded calm enough. "I startled myself, that's all."

Fine words, but Ikshu heard the breathless guilty lilt that told another story. He could practically see his master's hand through the door, still as could be as he told yet another lie.

It was one lie too many, and without announcement, he pushed the flimsy wooden obstacle inward. He saw the boy jump as it smacked against the wall and reverberated on its hinges.

Wide grey eyes met horrified onyx, as Ikshu saw what it was his lord sought to conceal. Horrible, gutting silence reeled between them, and he looked from the counter top to his lord and back.

Blood was smeared everywhere, as if the boy had been frantically trying to clean it before Ikshu walked in. It was on the counter, the rim of the sink, drops of red smeared across silver metal and grey marble.

His lord was stained in it, hands pressed against his mouth. His wrists. It ran in silent rivulets down his arms, to drip from his elbows to the polished marble at his feet, all of it pouring from a wound near his mouth that Ikshu couldn't see.

But he did see. Burst capillaries wept in their agony into traumatized purpling flesh of his cheek: the tell-tale signs he'd been struck by something heavy.

"What have you done?" His voice was rattling horrified hiss, as he took a threatening enraged step toward his lord, still standing stricken dumb and silent, and stained in blood. "What in Arda have you done?"

The boy shifted his hands, and after a second lowered them, revealing a folded scrap of cloth and the torn flesh that bled so profusely.

"What have I done?" His teeth were stained red as he spoke. And his eyes were narrowed as he glowered in ornery, petulant, adolescent defiance. "I've done nothing more than what I need to."

"That so? You're father sanction this?" Terror flashed across Fëatho's eyes. And he ducked his head turning it to the side. "I know this looks…bad." He shivered as he gestured to the offending counter. "But it's not. It doesn't hurt, and I-"

"You know well enough this isn't about a split lip!" Ikshu stamped his foot, livid and terrified for his lord. "Fëatho? Lord? What has happened to you? What have you done?"

Fëatho's brow furrowed, and again he turned away, concealing his expression behind dishevelled molten hair.

"My Lord-"

"Ikshu stop-" Fëatho's voice was made of icy despair and bitter exhaustion. "Please. I can't- I can't say. I can only tell you that I must. I need to do this. I have to. It's the only way-"

"No! I've let this go long enough! But no longer! Look at you!" Ikshu took a brazen step forward shaking hand fisted, and a part of him want so badly to lash out and knock sense into the boy. "Look at you!" He growled. "You're worn to the bone and you look like someone hit you with a battering ram! You're bleeding all over the place. You've been sneaking out! And you've been lying!"

A horrified fearful hiss scraped across his lord's lips, and Fëatho looked at him in blatant surprise and fear. And Ikshu hated it. Hated that his lord was becoming another monster to stalk the corridors, another viper to hiss and sink its venom into all. He hated that his lord seemed more concerned with being caught than with consequences of his erroneous behaviour.

To his credit Fëatho was looking. He was looking down at his fingers, tacky with gummy red, but his gaze was far off.

"Ikshu, I've done something terrible."

 **Version 2:**

 **What follows remained in the chapter until the very second I decided to post it, so right before I hit the submit button, I decided to cut this.**

"My lord," Ikshu closed the heavy door so that no other servants might hear. In his hands he thumbed the silken cool fabric, and quietly padded to stand a short distance from his lord.

The boy was half turned in his chair, looking at him, with a frown, and Ikshu felt that some cold sliver of dread worm its way in his chest. Whit like bleached bone, he sat small and frail against the dark walls, and his eyes looked strangely dim and exhausted.

He must have snuck out again. Anger reared its anxious head, but Ikshu tamped it down.

"My lord," he said again, tentatively smoothing a crease of fabric between his fingers. "One of the servant girls brought me this."

Raising the fabric aloft, he revealed it to a pillow sheet, plain slate grey, save for the dark rusty smear.

Fëatho, frowned in disinterest as his grey eyes swept over it. Lost in his long billowy sleeves the boy's hands were hidden from view, but Ikshu detected no movement. Passively the young lord answered. "My nose bled sometime during the night."

Ikshu's brow crinkled, several thoughts zipping through his mind at once.

His master didn't get nosebleeds. Was his master alright? Was he ill? Was that why he was acting so strange lately; because he'd taken ill for the first time in his life? Could he even get sick? What sort of illness triggered nosebleeds in the first place? Was his lord lying again?

"Are you well my lord?" The chamberlain asked. "This was not the result of another nightly venture was it?"

"I'm fine," Fëatho's gaze sharpened and his voice flattened. Fed another lie, Ikshu's eyes narrowed, and slowly he lowered the pillowcase to his side. Resentment burned bright white and hot moiling and mixing with concern and fear for the child's safety.

"Are you, my lord? Are you truly?" Brazen and bold he demanded answers no servant had a right to ask. "Last I knew my lord had no need of dishonesty when he was feeling fine."

Fëatho stood, glaring, jaw clenched and gaze livid. "I appreciate your concern, but your gaze is faulty."

Ikshu wanted to laugh. He want to strangle the boy. He wanted to beg and plead for answers that he knew his lord wasn't inclined to grant.

"Perhaps, my gaze is faulty. Perhaps, I've never known my lord as well as I thought… I had never imagined he could so callously rip apart the relationships he has with those closest to him." Something in Fëatho's gaze shifted. A sliver of guilt wavered quicksilver in his eyes, before disappearing. Ikshu lifted the pillowcase. "I'll see to it that this is purged of its blemishes."

Fëatho looked away, fingers picking at the hem of his sleeves, as Ikshu shifted, making for the door.

His hand was on the handle, when he heard his master's voice behind him.

"Ikshu."

It was a desperate quiet plea, and feigning vague curiosity, and callous disinterest, the Easterling turned. He'd considered asking his lord to consider his resignation, to truly drive home how upset he was, but he'd withheld, sensing that it hadn't been truly needed.

"Yes my lord?" Ikshu asked blithely, and he saw his young lord wince when he heard his uncaring tone. A far greater actor and liar than his lord, he sounded ruthlessly uncaring to his own ears, and whether or not Fëatho believed in that moment he'd driven his chamberlain to become so callous hardly mattered. What did matter was that, at last, the boy seemed willing to speak. What plight his master faced could be thwarted if he would but illuminate it and hope was kindled in the man's heart as the boy shifted on his feet.

Fëatho's fingers tittered, twirling and pulling on his sleeves, and his gaze was fixed solidily on the wall beside him. He trembled, shivering as if with cold, and he opened his mouth uttering nothing but a faint click of choked inarticulate sound. At length his eyes slid to Ikshu, and boy stilled, save for his fluttering fingers. For a beat he paused, as if still uncertain.

Then he cast aside his doubts. His shoulders rose in the anticipation of speech and his mouth opened.

"I…I'm sorry." Fëatho shifted; disparaging guilt flushed across his face. "I'm sorry." He ran a hand through his hair, and if his nails came away blemished and dark. Ikshu frowned displeased by the sight, he made no move forward, and said nothing of his observation. Before his Fëatho picked at his fingers, scraping blood from under his nails.

For a moment Ikshu was disgusted, because he expected more. After well over a week of this, 'I'm sorry' was all he was getting? He didn't want his lord's apology. He wanted answers.

"My lord."

His lord flinched at his icy tone, and once again looked away, all but squirming with agitation where he stood. It was enough to make Ikshu feel uncomfortable just looking at him, seemingly cowering back -even as he stood straight- fingers a maelstrom of activity, and his pale face turned away.

His entire countenance screamed of fear and revulsion, and Ikshu felt an enormous upwelling of guilt and fear. To think he might be responsible for this in any way was appalling but worse was the notion that something or someone else had elicited such visceral terror, because that was exactly what it was.

"My Lord…Fëatho. Please. If you are hurt, please, I implore you to tell me. Ever we've been friends, and whatever it is, all that it is, won't change that. Please, Fëatho, don't suffer in silence. There's no need." He longed to reach out, bit withheld himself. It was so fragile, so tenuous a thing, that last shred of gossamer hope, that it could snap like a string.

Ikshu watched the boy shudder. His hands shook in balled fists, and his jaw was clenched-in sorrow or anger the man wasn't sure.

"My lord, what is it that scares you so?"

The question was enough to cross the line, and Fëatho hissed, face contorting into a sneer as he twisted his head to glare at his chamberlain. His hands were clenched in fists at his side.

"I'm not afraid!"

But he was afraid, Ikshu saw it in his eyes. It burned and blistered in the air about him. It rattled its truth in every tremor of his white knuckled hands. He was terribly frightened. And Ikshu couldn't understand it. When and how had his lord been driven to fear?

Immediately he thought of Dirar. His lord felt terribly guilty about what had happened to the boy, but guilt did not general morph into fear. It didn't add up, yet all this odd behaviour had started around roughly the same time. He tapped his toe against the marble floor, in thought.

Was that it? It was all that he knew-the only correlation he could make. And yet…he felt like he was missing something, some critical detail, and he studied his young lord for any inkling as to what that might be?

"I am not!" Fëatho's voice dripped venom, and his grey eyes were stormy, flickering with far lightning. "I don't know what you think Ikshu, but I'm not the bloody library; some secret coveted and cloistered. I'm tired of being treated as such! I don't need coddling! I don't need help, nor do I want it! So please, do us both a favour and leave it be!" He hissed.

"My lord, all I wish is that you are happy and safe. But since you have made it so poignantly clear, I will of course refrain from pestering you further." He bowed. "If you desire, I will take my leave now, and see that this is cleaned."

"Yes." Fëatho nodded. "That I think would be best." He turned, and sat in front of his desk once more. The quill in his hands scratched across the paper, and bitterly Ikshu glared at the child's back.

Burying his frustration and relaxing his face into a calm smooth plain he left his lord to sulk in front of his books and papers. Let him sit and rot there if he wished.

The chamberlain pressed the pillowcase into the arms a passing servant boy.

"See that this is given to the wash girls."

The boy nodded scampering off.

Fuming, Ikshu slipped into the hall. His slippers softly padded against the floor, as he wondered with no thought of where he was going, beyond abandoning the company of others. What did he do now? Was this more than adolescent rebelliousness? Instinct screamed yes, but what ought he to do now. The immediate answer would be to bring this to his father.

He could tell Dark Lord the boy was unwell: sick in the head and sick emotionally, and doubtlessly the Lord of Mordor would summon the boy to discover the truth. It would be out of his hands after that. If there was one thing the Dark Lord would be furious to hear, it was that his honest son, had found a bedfellow in deception.

There was the small matter of approaching the Lord of Mordor. That in and of itself was a dangerous thing to do. Oh he would listen. He'd listen because he would want to know all that his son was up to, but Ikshu had little idea with what or whom Fëatho had gotten involved, and he disliked the idea bringing open suspicions to Mordor's Lord.

Then sooner or later his master would learn who had alerted the Dark Lord in the first place, and Fëatho might consider such tattling betrayal. The lord, who had sought to protect him might not wish for his services any longer, and even if Fëatho did desire his continued work, the boy would be furious for a long time. No. He couldn't bring this to the Dark Lord. At least he couldn't do so personally.

Through the darkened halls, he wandered, pondering the dilemma. How serious was it? Was it worth the Dark Lord's involvement? What if it wasn't, and he was merely seeing things where no problems existed. What if it was, and too late the matter was brought to the boy's father?

Either way, Mordor's lord needed to be told.

But how to do it became the question. It was a dangerous gamble. Mordor's lord had no qualms punishing his messengers, and fear of his master's master, rose up to squash what loyalty and duty demanded. That anything was wrong with his son, that only what Fëatho had been content to reveal pointed a finger at the Dark Lord's parenting, would not curry leniency or forgiveness, and it scared him what might happen to himself or what might happen to Fëatho.

The very notion of Fëatho becoming deceitful was one the Lord of Mordor cared little for, and when he learned that's what his son had done, he'd be furious, regardless of what necessity the boy claimed as an excuse.

Rumour travelled fast across the vast expanse of the Dark Tower, and word had reached the ears of many, one of the High Lords was in the tower. It was the usual one; the Black Messenger. Not all the wraiths were the same, and while the Messenger was not nice, he was far from the worst among them. And he was one of the few his master had met and seemed to get on with, which could only be of benefit here.

He paused wondering if it would not be wise to inform somebody where he was going; any of the lesser servants, so that he might be found if he did not return. Fretfully he grit his teeth. The whole point of going to Fuinur in the first place was out of need for discretion, and he didn't fancy Fëatho discovering his whereabouts. But going to face a High Lord with no lifeline, no certainty of rescue or refuge, was a terrifying prospect. But if he didn't, and these issues surrounding Fëatho weren't settled, what might happen then?

Something was truly wrong and more Ikshu thought about, the more certain he was that something was terribly amiss. But while the boy had no wish to speak to him he would talk to Fuinur though: the unbiased friend.

All that remained was to compel the wraith to help...without getting killed, or worse.

Desperation might be his salvation. But there was little he had to offer in terms of payment. The Nazgûl could not be bought with gold or gems, and it was a stretch to suggest they could bought at all, but what they craved most was what they hated most.

Life.

Life could buy a High Lord's attention and time. It might be enough to curry a small favour. But even then there was no guarantee Fuinur would be inclined to help. He knew little of the High Lords and what demands their master made upon their time. And what little time Lord Fuinur might have him to himself was not liable to be cheaply bought.

Anxiously he tapped his foot, thinking of his young lord, all stiff and solemn, so strange and bent out of shape. He'd been a nervous child, shy even, and he'd thrown more than a few tantrums over the years. All children did sooner or later, but Fëatho had transitioned into adolescence without incident, until now. And all at once everything seemed to be coming undone.

He knew the boy felt responsible for Dirar. It was in his face every time the unfortunate page was mentioned. And for years his young lord had wished for a freedom the Dark Lord repeatedly denied. Maybe Dirar and a terribly disrespectful lord had truly served as the final straw? It was the conclusion he'd made, even if once again he was struck by the notion he'd missed something vital.

While he knew what he might say to ease Fëatho's guilt, he also knew his lord was in no mood to hear it. On the contrary Fëatho was making every effort to shut him out and to shut him away, and for the life of him Ikshu couldn't imagine why.

He'd done nothing to deserve such treatment. And angry though he was, everything he was observing screamed of a child in need. There would be time for anger, but his duty first and foremost to his lord's wellbeing, and that required a power greater than he to intervene. Whatever his lord was doing, wherever he was going in the night, the Dark Lord needed to know.

' _The Dark Lord needs to know….'_

Ikshu shook his head, with an exhale. He might have questioned whether or not the Dark Lord would be furious that he took so long to bring this scary change in his son's behaviours to his attention. On the other hand, men who beseeched the High Lords for favours seldom returned, so he'd at least be spared the Dark Lord's wrath. That surely counted for something? He uttered a feeble huff of laughter that withered cold and frosty on his lip. It counted for naught, and he knew it. Ikshu wasn't so brave or foolish to think otherwise, but his lord needed help. Truly he did. And there was little else he could do.

* * *

 **Below is what would have been the end for the chapter, but it felt…unnatural and stilted. I think a lot of my writing, after the feast scene felt that way, but this was particularly special, especially it was going to be the pivotal moment of revelation, when the readers finally see the problem in full. I cut it out because I didn't like it, and the special beginning piece of it is being placed here.**

 **The original handwritten piece that follows is better, and will make its way into the scrap pile, because when I wrote it, I made the mistake of taking focus away from a character in dire straits (which is never a good thing) to do world building. So yay! Mordor has been fleshed out! Woo! But it was bad timing.**

 **Yeah…this chapter did not want to come together. It really did not. I'm not happy with it. I'm doing a lot of hacking where the second half is concerned to make it more cohesive, and more meaningful. I really feel like I built up to something, and the opening was good, but when it came to dropping the hints, and putting the pressure on I dropped the ball. So the chapter is a big bowl of spaghetti, and I posted it because at about 20kT it's getting kind of out of hand. And the build-up thus far has not been worth the pay off. Nor the chapter worth the wait. So I'm rather grumpy. But chapter 4 might be redeemable. Might be, if I don't screw it up.**

 **Oh dear….**

 **Beginning of the End:**

Papers flew, swishing as they wafted anti-climatically to the ground in utter disarray. Fëatho stood over them, limned in phosphorescent red, fuming; furious with Ikshu, furious with himself. Why couldn't the man leave well enough alone? Why couldn't have stayed and pried further, until he might have finally been compelled to reveal his secrets?

He wracked his fingers across his scalp, tendons rigid as he ruined his braid, and tugged molten strands from their roots.

Shuddering he bowed his head regretting the way their last conversation had ended, acutely aware it was all his fault. He couldn't tell the man what had happened. What he'd done. Ikshu knew all about Dirar, but that was only part of it, and the rest was infinitely worse. How, how could he bare that his chamberlain? The man was convinced he served a good lord, but to confess by his own admission he was not, and his friend had it wrong, that was unbearable. He couldn't tell him. He couldn't.

For a long while he paced, clutching his chest as the maggots ate away at him. He spasmed and twitched as their innumerable jaws devoured. A conflagration of fire burned beneath his sternum, and at length he slipped his robes from over his shoulders, relishing the touch of cool air as it brushed his flushed skin. His tunic he pulled off over his head, and closed his eyes as cool air grazed his chest.

It provided momentary relief and did not to cease the maggot in their devastation. He twitched as chest muscles constricted and his stomach fluttered. Shallow gasps dried his lips as he sucked in air. Rarely there seemed to be enough anymore.

Deciding his room wasn't cool enough to put out the fire, he slipped his clothes back on and tentatively opened the door. Hesitant he peered out, unwilling and incapable of facing Ikshu again, but the boy neither saw nor heard his chamberlain, and he darted across the scant few feet between his bedroom and the rest of his chamber.

He flung himself into the hall, and dug his knuckles into his sternum willing taut muscles to slacken and maggots to stop feasting. He was rotting.

Already he was rotten.

Without much thought for where he was going, as long as it might be cold, he moved. There were secluded balconies on the lower floors not yet barred off, and he slipped into an elevator. An ornate lantern illuminated the space, and the walls veiled in velvet that he absently ran his fingers over as the contraption lurched downward.

 **Part of the problem here, is that I didn't want this chapter to be written from Fëatho's POV. For two reasons. The first is laziness: What is going on with him emotionally, mentally, and physically is really difficult to keep straight. Trying to keep an even balance between those things, keeping certain details vague, giving him proper introspection, while trying to paint a naturally honest character as dishonest and making /that/ feel natural proved far too challenging to do.**

 **The second reason is the mystery. If you're not inside his head, you don't know what he's thinking. You don't know what he's going through, what's been done to him, or what he might have done in turn.**

 **So writing from his POV, really was not fun. I did not enjoy it.**

 **And as I was writing this, it occurred to me that a lot of the problems were with Fëatho himself, and my inability to write him. And when I starting thinking about where and when I dropped the ball: after the scene with the orc healer, I realized I could essentially cut a lot of the following scenes out, as they did not contribute much to the story, or they contributed the wrong things at the wrong time. So the scrap heap became a lot bigger….**

 **And so here follows a great deal of the third chapter:**

 **In Which Fëatho Sneaks out for Night Fighting:**

In the dark Fëatho laid, exhausted, but unable to sleep. His chest ached, and burned, and something inside was pulled taut and ready to snap like a string. It made no difference, which direction he lay, if he rolled onto his side, or curled on his stomach. Anxious and desperate he rubbed at his sternum, willing the maggots to fall still, to no avail. Nothing worked, and he groaned into the empty expanse of his room.

He'd returned to his chamber, appearance made immaculate. Precious time he'd spent in one of the tower's many elevators preening until he could face his servants without raising an alarm.

Ikshu was especially watchful, and Fëatho had to be increasingly vigilant and furtive in his dealings with his chamberlain, lest the man grow wise. Cleverer he was having to become in order to keep his secrets safe, and Fëatho supposed this was not a bad thing. Except it was. His father hated deception, and those who dared to wield it against him. And it was by lucky chance he'd avoided his father's detection this evening, but everyone else about him lied. They spun their webs, and laid their traps, conspiring all the time, and that was right, and yet it was simultaneously wrong for him.

They lied with impunity-though never to the Lord of Mordor- and got away with it, but Fëatho was quick to suffer ridicule for merely attempting it. How was that fair? What was his father thinking? Was lying wrong or wasn't it? Or was it only wrong to lie to the Dark Lord? Or maybe it was only wrong for him to lie?

It was exercise, he told himself every time he offered his faithful servant a false smile or a dishonest word. It was exercise. It was exercise, and it was good what he was doing, because his father didn't need a weak ineffectual sons, but strong ones. Good ones. And one of these days he'd be both a good son and a good lord.

Guilt burned in his chest as he recalled dinner, and the seemingly countless days he'd spent keeping secrets from Ikshu.

It was exercise, and he'd grow into a fine and noble lord, who would never need fear the harm others might do to his servants, who would never again be cowed by bitter truths spoken by an enemy's mouth, who would never need to depend solely on his father for protection. He'd stand proud and tall, on his own merit, because Mordor had no need nor room for weak little lords like himself.

" _So the truth's revealed, you are a little flower in the end. Lugbúrz's own copper blossom, choking amid the rocks. And here I thought, they only jested when saying you have flowers in your blood."_

Kemic had shrugged, so nonchalantly, his little smile had been so cluealy gluttonous as he had revelled in his mockery. Because he had been safe. He was returning to Rhun, and his pleasure palace in Dorwinion, and none would know what he said or did, save Fëatho, and stupidly the boy had let himself be cowed. By shock and disbelief, he'd been rendered mute and statue still.

" _Perhaps that's what happens when one's mother is a Tark."_ And something had burned in the man's eyes, calculated and malicious, while something hot, white, and fell had been kindled in Fëatho's chest. It was one thing to insult him, and quite another to insult his mother.

" _My mother,"_ Fëatho had growled in pure venom, and even now he glared hatefully into the red and gold canopy of his bed, while his fingers fisted and throttled the sheets around him.

" _Yes,"_ Kemic had smiled innocuously. _"Your mother was the weakest of Numenoreans to ever curse this land with their presence, yet she was still stronger than you. She had her excuses, of course; being the daughter of a mewling whore of a queen, and whatever drunken gutter-wretch of a father that had taken her in a back alley, but for the son of Lord Mairon,"_ Kemic sneered so cruel _. "There are none. Nor will there ever be"_

His dark eyes had laughed daggers, and his words had dripped poison. Boldly and brazenly the man had approached him then, predatory and offensive, wicked malice burning in his eyes, as gutting words crowded behind his shark teeth.

" _It's a bitter irony, that from such a formidable union, such a dainty flower was the end result."_

Fëatho scrunched up his face, and turned his burning cheeks into his pillow as maggots wriggled and fire burned in his breast.

He was a wolf, not a flower, and he rubbed irritably at his face. His mouth especially as, Kemic's fingers glided in a phantasmal echo across his skin. But even if he was a flower now, he wouldn't be for long. He was training, he was lying, and he'd rise to stand above jealous lords like Kemic, who hated him not because he had what they did not, but because they thought he hadn't earned it. And he would. He would earn his place, because Mordor didn't need weak princes. His servants didn't need lords who couldn't keep them safe. And the Dark Lord didn't need an ineffectual son who couldn't take care of himself.

" _Is that what you'll do Fëatho? Run to Lord Mairon the Great, pathetic in your cowardice, proving once and for all that you're just a pretty little flower?"_

He screwed his eyes shut, pressing his face into his pillow. He wasn't a flower. He wasn't weak. And if he was now, soon he wouldn't be. He was going to deal with Kemic as he ought to have done in the first place. He was going to release Dirar from his service, since it was obvious he couldn't protect his servants. He was going to become strong, and brave, so that he could protect his father and serve Mordor to the best of his ability.

He was simply training. It was only an exercise lying to Ikshu-lying to them all. It was good, what he did, but he couldn't shake off the guilt or the profound feeling that what he was doing was horribly wrong.

Fëatho woke with a gasp, the maggots in his chest burning as they gnawed ever deeper. With a flicker of fey puissance, a candle sprung to life, and shuddering, gasping, on the verge of tears he raised his hands. Pale and unmarred they shone pallid in the wan orange light. Blood, hot blood had coagulated in the creases of his hands, and horror shuddered out of his chest in a quaking sob.

Thoughtlessly he rose, stomach churning, and heart racing. He stood running his fingers through his hair, needing to leave, to move, to go somewhere, anywhere that wasn't here.

He slipped on a woollen robe, hiding the tunic and britches he slept in.

Calling up a tendril of puissance he wove for himself the guise of one of his servants. Hiding behind the face of a page, Fëatho fled his chambers, feeling from yet another bad dream.

He fell into the one of the many elevators utilized by the servants, and bolted the metal gate behind him, with a clank. Falling back against the barred walls, he closed his eyes, safe in his little cage, and there he hung gathering his wits.

But he wasn't far enough yet. He wasn't strong enough yet. And his chambers were not so far. He suspected Ikshu knew he was sneaking out, and if he tarried he was liable to be caught sooner or later, and with trembling fingers he pulled back the lever, and chains lurched in a rattling jump, before he began his solemn decent.

Many faces and many guises he would take to insure he made it to his destination.

There was one place where his dreams could be forgotten. One place where what he was and who he was were no importance, where he could escape Kemic's cruel smiles and his guilt as a failure of a lord. It was a place where leaves might be replaced with fur, and flowers with fangs. It was the only place where he might yet still be a wolf, and claim some strength to call his own.

Mentally preparing for another furtive night of secret brawling he made his way to the training pits. Throughout the course of his journey there, he'd take many guises, and wear many faces, and none would be the wiser. These late night excursions were not appropriate, and their discovery would earn him a stern word from the Lord of Mordor, if nothing else. But it was all he could think to do. It was the only way to grow, to become better than he was, and until he was ready to bring his nightly trysts to his lord and father.

By then he could stand proudly and claim that he had grown and become better, and what of his father's ire his secrecy might have raised would be lulled by pleasure, because Fëatho had tried, and succeeded in becoming the lord he was meant to be.

Until then it was his coveted treasure, too precious to lose. It was the only way he could think of to become what he was supposed to be. His little secret. His little lie.

* * *

 **The Subject of Elevators:**

 **(Because taking a moment to ignore a character's problems to focus on the scenery in as much gratuitous detail as possible is always important.)**

At the height of the utmost tower, stairs were not an efficient means by which travel and so the Dark Lord had wisely devised a means by which one could easily navigate the heights and depths of the citadel with ease.

Ikshu didn't care for elevators. Trapped in a little steel cage, suspended by chains and strong ropes on a pulley system, he felt vulnerable and claustrophobic. As far as he knew, none had ever fallen, but once or twice he'd heard of them getting stuck, and people being trapped between floors.

Given that there were likely hundreds of them, scattered throughout the various towers, being used by hundreds of people every day it was a miracle far more accidents of greater consequence hadn't occurred. This was likely owed to some magic that was imbued in them and the orcs and slaves that toiled away to see them maintained, but all the same Ikshu's heart fluttered and his brow prickled with sweat.

This particular elevator spanned five floors, reserved for personal servants of Mordor's highest lords, and no others could use it save for Fëatho and the Dark Lord himself, but for them there was another elevator; opulent and pleasant in its design, catering to comfort as well as swift travel, and it spanned the height of the tower. On every floor guards stood before its doors to insure that none other than Mordor's mightiest lords could use it.

The one Ikshu stood in was elementary, nothing but the bare minimum needed: a lantern to see by, one solid wall to cower against, and three barred walls to remind him of what a prisoner he was trapped in a mobile cage dangling who knew how high on a few measly chains that could break at any second. What a blessing it was that the Dark Lord was gracious enough to provide his servants such a reminder! As if they were liable to forget they might die at any second.

When the elevator jerked to its stop on the bottom most of the five floors, he darted out, convinced this efficient means of transportation really was nothing more than a clever means with which the Lord of Mordor could endlessly torment generations of slaves and servants.


	7. Drabble: History as Told by Sauron

**Author's Note: I'd first and foremost to apologize to those who say the update for TYW and found no third chapter waiting for them. I took it down, because it was terrible, and it's a long story. I am very sorry about that. But the new version of the third chapter is up.  
**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own.**

* * *

 **Of Glorfindel and Gothmog, as Told by Sauron  
**

"Frûmsnaag," the Dark Lord crooned. The melodious tenderness in his voice warped with the subtle finery of a throaty 'r' into a muted growl. "Little Wolf, bedtime is upon thee. Come."

The small child looked up, and padded over. He was a mere doll in the Dark Lord's hands when he lifted the child up. His red hair fell in short downy waves, so unbelievably soft. The boy was soft in general; made of tubby rolls of baby fat he was only just starting to grow out of, and a tranquil personality.

"How was thy day, my pup?" He blew on the boy's head, watching the cascade of flyaway red strands. The boy giggled, and scratched at his forehead.

"Boring," the boy pouted curling forward in a silent desire of a proper hug. "It's only fun when you're here."

The Dark Lord smirked. He took a great deal of pride in his wit and found it wondrously delightful when his sense of sarcasm and humour was appreciated. Every Wednesday he visited his son at six, to read to him. before putting him to bed.

Of course, he made a point of making sure to visit more often than that, but at least one of the day of the week it was a mandated appointment on his calendar, rigid, and immovable. He had to be with his son. It was important that the child get used to the strict protocols of a militant society, and organization was a virtue of great worth, that he wanted to make sure was instilled in the boy as early as possible, for one day his whole world would be made of schedules, and calendars. That's just how the world worked. (A properly functioning one at any rate.)

Literacy was another lesson of great importance, and even at an early age his son had a shelf of books. Most of them gnawed upon and when he'd asked the boy what had happened to them he'd blamed his toy wolves, saying they didn't have anything to hunt, and the books had been lying there.

Writing books for his son in Black Speech had proven a delightful challenge. A militaristic language for a dark warmongering society, he'd learned swiftly how few words were suitable for his son's developing impressionable ears. Of course that was also the moment he remembered that all stories were, sooner or later, about war, and bloodshed.

In Numenor they'd read their children stories about warrior kings, and their epic battles, and it seemed small children were quite keen on the presence of blood, provided it was being by shed by the deserving…or rather they enjoyed the exploits of those who deserved to shed blood.

But it was only in the peaceful centuries after the Last Alliance that the blood had been taken out of such stories, to make them more suitable for children, or at least more suitable for those who had to read them to children, and didn't want to deal with the hassle of answering difficult questions.

All that being said, there were no epics of Azog the Impaler on his son's shelf, just to be safe. He didn't need his son getting funny ideas about the effectiveness oaken tree limbs in the heat of battle. How that dwarf had managed to live as long as he had, was beyond the Dark Lord's reckoning, but no son of his was going to stake his life on a piece of bark, that was for sure.

The choices available, were all well read, and he made a mental note to write him a new one. A developing mind needed fresh inspiration and information. It was vital to ensure the preservation of curiosity and intrigue.

Boy still tucked to his chest, he pulled one from the shelf. The book was called _Where's My Cow_ _,_ and it was the one his son loved most. Riddled with tooth marks and wrinkled by once wet saliva, the book was an old favourite, and the only one mass marketed for children worldwide.

Naturally it was about a father, who was a lazy oaf in charge of law enforcement rather than a country, and was consequently lucky in the fact he got to be home every evening at six with his little son, unlike the Lord of Mordor, who might find himself suddenly holed up in an emergency meeting, or treating with foreign dignitaries at unreasonable hours, and was, as result forced to schedule family time. But that was life for a leader.

He opened the book, full of whimsical pictures, with cows and friendly little green dragons, because dragons were more than the ill-tempered hoarders the world made them out to be, and it was important to him that his son have an appreciation for people's differences, and some people liked sleeping on mountains of gold more than others.

It was an old standby, and certainly he could read it tonight, but an idea for a new story, something bold and brazen, full valuable life lessons, and few a tasteful elf-jokes was tempting.

Far too tempting, and he slid the teal covered book back onto the shelf.

They'd search for a lost cow another night.

Slipping from the boy's room, child in his arms, he made his way to his wife's study. She sat at her desk writing, and without asking, with his free hand he began opening and closing drawers, searching for what he needed.

"Can I help you?" The boy's mother asked at length, giving him an incredulous look.

"Possibly-no." He lifted a red leather bound book up. "I found it."

"Wait! Wait a minute! There's a toll for ransacking someone's drawers."

He turned, smiling in her face. "I have a son in need of a story. I'll pay later."

With that he turned on his heel and sauntered off, smirked as he caught her, grumpily mumbled 'with interest you will,' as he reached the door.

"That a threat?" He asked, eyes flashing. From where she stood in front of her desk she glared. "Only if you want it to be, Tar-Mairon, dearest. I'll have you know in today's economy rates of interest are absurdly high and fluctuate…hmm…If I'm being generous…I would say every ten minutes. You'd better hurry, foreign reading policies aren't cheap these days."

Laughing he waved her words away, and left her to her number crunching, journaling, or whatever she'd been doing.

"What's a desk troll?" Fëatho asked, as they made their way back to his room.

"Why it's a troll that lives in a desk, of course."

Fëatho frowned. "I've never seen one."

"That's because they only come out night and hide during the day."

The child's head perked up. "Can we look for one?"

The Dark Lord's lips curled into a smile. "It's bedtime now, but perhaps tomorrow _you_ can look for one. To lure one out of hiding you have to clap your hands, as loudly as possible. Then you'll need to say you have chocolate. In fact, it might not be a bad idea to shout it. And the perfect time to catch one, will be when your mother's sitting there, as it will already looking for a place to run away to."

The boy nodded along, and the Dark Lord's smile warped into a vicious smirk. Let his wife make of that what she would. He was the master of intended interest, and it served her right, for spouting heinously poor economic jokes at him.

His pressed his lips into the boy's hair as they settled in his bed.

When the Dark was sitting, with his legs awkwardly draped over the end of the child's bed, and his little wolf was curled in his lap, he opened the book's cover.

"No pictures." Fëatho pointed to a page full of Tengwar.

"This is an adult book. Grownups don't read books with pictures in them. We have to use our imaginations, and make-believe the things we read. It's really quite fun," he assured the child.

"Just get comfortable, and then when you're ready, close your eyes, and listen to what I say."

"I'm ready," the boy said. And the Dark Lord pursed his lips.

"You always say that, and then ten minutes you're squirming about a grub, and crawling over me."

"I'm ready," Fëatho urged, and his father narrowed his eyes, at the open honest face peering up at him from his chest.

"You're sure?"

"Shoor! Pomise!"

The Lord of Mordor rolled his eyes, giving the boy a generous five minutes before he broke his promise and started wiggling, but without another word on the matter, the Dark Lord obliged.

He read to his son in Black Speech, especially when reading tales of elves. If one was going to make a language in mockery of theirs' he thought it an equally good idea to mock the childishly, over-dramatic manner in which they began their insipid little fables.

"Once, not so long ago in the grand theme of things, as Ainur reckon the passage of time, there once lived a happy little Balrog named Gothmog. And he was a very good little Balrog. He was big, and strong, wielded a whip of fire and sword of flame."

His son uttered a soft gasp, and the Dark Lord placed a hand over the boy's eyes as they fluttered open.

"He liked taking long strolls in the snow, drinking oolong tea, and singing bad karaoke."

The Dark Lord's head tilted, and maybe his eyes lost some of their molten lustre. Maybe not all had been so bad. It was a time in his life he rarely thought back to, and it was surprisingly harder than he'd initially thought-paying respects to fallen friends, who'd deserved better than they'd received. The Void was no place for any of them…well most of them….

His hands slipped to upward, and his fingers curled into his son's hair: so soft, so warm, and so far removed from cold harsh snow and stone.

"He was a captain," the Dark Lord said softly. He wasn't even looking at the page in his hand-wasn't even reading. On a whim, he was making his story up, and his son was strangely stiff and quiet, as if he felt the shift in his father's demeanour. One of his little hands rose, and curled around the Dark Lord's fingers.

"He was a great captain, commanding many: orcs, men, other Balrogs, and more besides. He was well respected, loved, and feared. He had a deep booming voice, and an even bigger laugh that shook the earth, and he spent his evenings with his soldiers, pint in hand, exchanging crude dwarf jokes."

"Then one day, his good-for-nothing, nihilistic, completely mad, disorganized, helter-skelter, scatter brained, bad singing, discordant, ill-humoured, cruel, vindictive, spiteful, rotten, frightfully ridiculous, cunning, conniving, dishonest, deceitful, low down, miserable, git of a master-! told the innocent Balrog the elves' hidden city of Gondolin had been found, and they needed to take it while the elves were unaware."

For the sake of continuing the ruse, he turned a page in the book.

"Good, sweet, and innocent Gothmog bowed before his master's mighty throne saying; 'Yes, Lord. As you will it, so it shall be.'"

The boy chose that moment to start squirming, and the Dark Lord counted the scant handful of short minutes of stillness the babe had promised him. All told they were worth a narrowed gaze, and an impassive apathetic gaze as the boy shifted about as he was wont to do and the Dark Lord wondered why he'd even bothered to assume the outcome would be any different.

Pointy elbows and bony knees hidden under fatty folds of deceptively soft skin, bruised and jabbed as he wriggled about, and the Lord of Mordor pursed his lips quickly growing irritated, but too vindictive to aid the child in his search for comfort.

"Father," Fëatho whined when he tried repositioning himself unaided. Little fingers buried themselves in folds of heavy dark cloak.

"Ada," he tried again, still petulant and quickly growing frustrated. When Quenya failed him, he tried again in Westron, beseeching his father's help.

Exhaling, the Dark Lord looked down at his son. "Well, what it is you want me to do?"

"You're all lumpy," the child groused. "And I'm cold…." He gave his father's cloak a pointed yank, scowling at the immovable fabric. Much of the cloth was confined beneath him.

"And you're all knobby. How came a grub like you, to have such pointy joints?"

"I'm not a grub! I'm a pup!"

"Oh no," the Dark Lord mused tapping a finger to his lip. "You're definitely a grub."

The child pouted at him. "Please…."

"You failed to keep your word, and I should reward you for that?"

A plaintive whine was all the response he got, as the boy slumped and rested his head against him. Exhaling the Lord of Mordor rolled his eyes. He really had gone soft in his old age.

He lifted the boy up, so that he dangled rather precariously. He smiled, clinging to his father's hand.

"Where is it you want to sit?"

At last the boy was settled, swaddled in the folds of his father's dark robes, until only his eyes and nose peeped out. Warm and lost in the dark, the child contentedly closed his eyes, only when he was most comfortable, and subsequently causing his father the most discomfort.

Heavily the babe was pressing every inch of fat-roll into his diaphragm, and the Dark Lord wondered if his son wasn't doing it on purpose.

At last he continued, telling his son of Gondolin, and the elves that lived there, filling in the important details. Describing the elf lord's in such exquisite and mocking details, as elves so often did- paying homage to the superficial details: the colour of his eyes, the length of hair, the gleam of his sword in the wan sunlight, the tenor of his melodious voice, the floral scent of his body odour, the yapping of his annoying dog, all his family relations including that one questionable sea slug who modern paleontologists were still debating the place of in the universal family tree, and most importantly his favourite flavour of sherbet, because those were the things that mattered.

For every elf lord, he did this, because it was good that Fëatho know who his father's enemies were, if not why they were counted as such in the first place. Explaining, he served someone who wanted to destroy the world, and all life therein, and might yet attempt to do so once more, wouldn't be easy to explain to one so young. Nihilism such as that, could not be so easily defined. So he left out the 'why,' distracting his son with the 'who.'

"…Then the Elf Lord- with his streaming golden hair- flung Gothmog from the cliff, adding murder to the obstruction, and terrorism charges already mentioned. And the Balrog's children didn't have a daddy anymore. Gothmog; honourable and noble as he was, was hated and reviled throughout all the ages that followed. While Glorfindel got away with it, without so much as guilty twinge: he was embodied by Mandos, returned to Middle-earth, and lived happily ever after as a celebrated hero, proving that you can be excused for just about anything if you've got fantastic hair, because they'll be so overwhelmed by your luscious locks, they'll forget to ask inconvenient questions."

He paused a second. "The end. You can open your eyes, if you wish."

The Dark Lord knew the boy wouldn't. He could hear his son's gentle breathing, all his little muscles slackened in slumber, and a smile touched his lips. Ever so gently he folded the boy into his arms, and carefully placed him in his bed. With that same care he slipped from the tiny bed.

His fingers trailed through his son's feather-soft hair.

"Sleep well, Little Wolf."


	8. Drabble: Unfortunate Circumstances

**Author's Note: I don't even know what I'm doing anymore. Apparently I just want to kill Featho. I don't actually think he dies here. I think Sauron does in fact save him, but I cut it off, because…I just…don't really know what this is.**

 **So I am toying with a sequel. The problem that I am having, is that it's basically a rehash of TYW. Father and son have a massive misunderstanding and then conflict ensues, and then maybe they work things out, and in the background Arda's destroyed, but who cares, because family drama is more interesting. Because no one cares millions of people just died, you know? Because sue-ish bad-fic drama is cooler…and I'm really unhappy with all my ideas thus far.**

 **I think it really would be fun to see Featho and Sauron interacting Morgoth. But…the idea doesn't seem to carry over to a larger set up, so…**

 **Part of it, boils down to incentive… like there's a reason I started TYW: to see if a tenth-walker fic featuring a child of Sauron could actually be done reasonably well. We'll have to see how that turns out.**

 **I just don't have that. There's no major overarching hypothetical question I'm trying to answer.**

 **Not that aren't questions I'd want to answer.**

 **Can a Shelob/OC pairing be compelling and interesting? (It's an interesting, if not terrifying question, but it isn't large enough to warrant an entire fic being written about it.)**

 **What would a Sauron redemption fic with a kid be like? (Basically it would resemble Sauron Gorthaur's** _ **Gorthauro Estel**_ **, which is an amazing piece of literature better than I could ever write, but with a sprog thrown in, so I ultimately wouldn't be bringing anything new to the table there.)**

 **The only thing that might work, is if it's a revenge plot. Morgoth comes back with a vendetta against the Lieutenant that would have betrayed him, and seemingly abandoned him during the War of Wrath…so that's something...?**

 **\- And Sauron would of course seek to evade Morgoth's clutches, but because I'm me, he will invariably fail, resulting in imprisonment, enslavement, and whatever else Morgoth opts to do to him. (Which is a plotline stolen from Last Days...the only difference that the cinnamon roll following Sauron, is his own son, rather than some stupidly altruistic kid with sever anxiety and social maladjustments.)**

 **Unfortunately I still don't find this idea interesting. Especially when I plan on exploring it with a much more 'canonical?' version of Sauron, rather than this bleeding-heart pretending to be Sauron.**

 **Disclaimer: It's fanfiction.**

* * *

 **Drabble: Unfortunate Circumstances  
**

Featho laughed, bitter and derisive. His lip curled in scorn and his eyes glittered with hopeless mirth, and all the more taunting and daring his smirk became.

His white teeth were glazed pink, as he leant forward. The chains restraining him clinked as they were pulled taut, and he still he smirked, braving the eyes of Morgoth. Eyes that had he'd been warned, had grown in fear of, he leered at in knowledge that he was going to die, and there was nothing that could be done to change it.

He'd made his plans, as well as they could have been, and it was up to others to pick up the pieces. His wife would do it, because spiders were gate keepers and guardians like no other, and Shelob kept her oaths.

"I can't."

"Can you not? Surely there's no need to die today, when you might find me merciful." The Dark Lord's voice crooned and filled his ears with dark syrup. "All I ask, is the count of Valar's forces. Tis but a simple number. And as your father's liege lord, there's no reason for distrust and furtive secrets."

Ashen fingers, wrinkled and scorched gently cupped his cheek. "There's no need for coy resistance when open honesty and a declaration of fealty would spare you much toil."

"I can't." The words spat themselves out, as if his own tongue was unwilling to obey him.

But they leapt, clumsily into the space between them, hanging on visceral threads. In the corner of his eye, his father moved- a flinch, and his hand rose as if to intercede only to lower, as his eyes darted between his master, and his insolent, helpless child.

"You wish for honesty? I've already sworn an oath of fealty, and pledged myself to a plights of another far greater than me."

"Featho…." His father's voice was a warning in the background. A faint whisper lost in the breeze as Featho's blood rushed in his ears.

Featho's grey eyes glinted with wicked mirth. "You call yourself a 'dark lord' and claim darkness as your domain, but I know you have no sway. The Dark was never truly yours, and so it has eve been beyond your command, but there is one- a daughter of such darkness."

Morgoth's eyes flickered with intuition and suspicion.

"She died long ago." His words were a concussive avalanche.

"Did she?" Featho asked. "Perhaps you should tell her that when next you meet. Because, I can assure you she has not forgotten your rotten promises, nor has she forgotten her lust for a dark lord's flesh."

Solid and malignant darkness convalesced. Louder than his blood it pounded mercilessly at his temples, and it felt as though his head was being squeezed. A mountain of hate and cruel vengeance bore down on him, and Featho sagged in the chains the held him.

"She's coming."

Featho's smiled was a twisted sicking thing, maddened by pain, fury, guilt, and a thousand anxieties and regrets that had harboured for over an age in his chest, so long to become bitterest kin, but he could name them not.

He smiled knowingly, smirking at a joke to which only he knew the punch line. His teeth were pink with blood and silent laughter, a muted madman, come to the end of his tether.

She's coming," he breathed, and his words were the lilting caress of a lover, but his eyes were fire.

In silence he was cackling as he reached toward death in eager anticipation, like friends long torn asunder, soon to be reunited at last.

He smiled and faced the full brunt of Morgoth's malignant ruinous gaze.

"For you."

He cocked his head, insolent to the last.

"She's coming."


	9. CH4: Scrap bits

**Author's Note: A piece that didn't make it into the final cut of TYW, but gives some critical insight into Featho's headspace after the terrible falling out between him and his dad. This is one of those pieces that I still want to dub as 'canon,' but eh. I may make references that insinuate a scene of similar nature occurred behind the scenes, but this as it is did not make the cut.**

 **Disclaimer: don't own.**

* * *

 **Chapter 4 Scraps: Fainting Spell**

In the infirmary Fëatho sat quietly, staring down at Dirar's sleeping face, tears pattering the top of his fluttering hands, as a nurse looked to the weeping cash in his scalp. When asked what happened, he claimed he'd fallen, and whether they truly believed him or not, the physicians hadn't seen fit press him.

He sat there, tears falling in bitter silence as he struggled to hold himself together as he fell apart. He tried not to think, he tried not to. He was so close to losing all composure, so close to be consumed in his entirety by ravenous worms that he couldn't bring himself to admit to himself what had just occurred.

His lord hadn't meant it. His father wouldn't have gone so far, had he not truly deserved it. He should have kept his mouth shut, should have obeyed, and it was on him. His father wasn't nearly so cruel. It wasn't evil, what he'd done. Only an evil son had given him grief. That's all it was. That's all it was. His lord hadn't meant it…but even if he had, Fëatho assured himself that it was deserved.

It was deserved, and he was wrong for pushing his lord so. He was wrong, because he couldn't do anything right. He was wrong-

"Wondrous news! Wondrous!"

An assistant's voice rang too loudly in the silence of the infirmary, and a grey clad slave-girl appeared in the door. Fëatho was yanked from his reveries, as several senior nurses and Master-physicians hissed their disapproval at her loud flamboyant entrance.

Admonished the girl apologized the same ostentation they'd hissed at, but now her voice was sugar and spice and grated his wrung out nerves to hear. Selfishly he wished she'd celebrate elsewhere, so that he could sit in peace.

"Sorry! Sorry I hadn't known-"

Her brown eyes widened as they landed on him and she dipped into a tentative curtsy.

"Please forgive me Lord. I hadn't meant-I'm so sorry." Her voice hushed as her wide eyes darted between him, the nurse, and Dirar.

"What is the wondrous news?" One of the Master-physicians looked up from a tome he was pouring over. She swallowed meeting the beady-eyed orc's gaze.

"It's Lord Kemic," she breathed in an elated rush, and Fëatho's blood turned to ice. "He's stirred." She was beaming, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

"He's awake?" Fëatho prayed that his voice hadn't trembled, and that he looked calm and collected as his palms turned tacky with sweat, and that his face had not paled in the sudden sickening flutter of his heart.

"No lord-not yet-but soon!" She turned once more to the Master-physician, all smiles and giddy joviality, asking what ought to be done now, and prattling on about how great it would be when he woke at last, and they be able to find out what had happened to him, and wasn't it wondrous?

Fëatho sagged, dangerously close to being ill as the world rose up to devour him. It was too much. Too much, and the maggots in his chest hollowed him with galling pain. He braced against the bed for the support, and slumped into a pair of hands that suddenly grabbed him.

"Lord Fëatho!"

Maggots. There were maggots. Red, slaked in gore- they were everywhere! He was rotting. He was melting from the inside out, and he shut eyes against the horror of it, as his chest churned molten and his hart raced beyond endurance.

Voices were loud with alarum, and they pulsed in yellow-white flashes behind his eyes, and he moaned as cold cloth was wonderfully pressed to his face. His stomach churned, and he lurched forward coughing up bile and burning acid.

Water was offered to him, but he didn't want it. He rose to stand. He needed to leave. He needed to tell his father that Kemic would be awake soon, if he even cared for the wellbeing of such a horrid failure of a son. He needed to leave, because Dirar hadn't stirred once, and he was furious at the injustice of it. He needed to leave before they caught on and realized that he was the reason Kemic had gotten hurt. He needed to leave, because his father had commanded him not to disgrace himself, and he needed to do something right to make things better.

He swayed. Hands snagged his robes and grasped his shoulders holding him back.

"What's wrong with him?"

"Concussion. The back of his head was bleeding…."

"My lord-!"

He found himself forced into a chair.

"I want my chamberlain. Send for my chamberlain."

"You need rest."

He shook his head, railing against the blackness in his vision. It was hot. He was boiling hot, as he never had been before. Maggots were eating him alive, and there wasn't enough time. There wasn't enough air, and he couldn't break from the hands grasping him. He couldn't do anything but sag miserably into a pair arms that held him, as strength deserted his quivering limbs.

"He feels cold," a voice said over him.

"Please…I want Ikshu…."

Voices were speaking to him, over him, but his the buzz of his pulse whooshing through his ears was growing impossible to hear over. He wanted Ikshu. He wanted his father. He was hot and sick and horrible scared. It was scary! And he struggled in the attempt to rise, but the dark rose with him and he sobbed as it encroached. He wanted his father-needed-needed to go back to him, before-before he couldn't. His father had hurt him. But he could fix him too.

He begged, screaming as that awful darkness pulled him from the world, but those around him heard naught but incomprehensible whimpers.


	10. Drabble:Peas and Carrots

**Author's Note: So I wanted to wish everyone a happy Thanksgiving.**

 **Trigger warnings: Physical and psychological abuse, cannibalism**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own**

* * *

 **Peas and Carrots: A Drabble**

 **(Not TYW-canon!)**

His presence was dark and ghastly. The very foundation of the tower, or perhaps the earth itself, groaned under the oppressive weight, of such malignant darkness. It crackled like lightning, and clawed the walls, coiling, moiling, roiling: barely contained.

And amid the dark, sobbing and bleating in unintelligible terror a little man from Rhûn slavered and soiled himself, and all lordly deserted him.

Wreathed in flame, a yellow eye glowered down, it's narrow pupil an abyss, a void, so empty, save for malice and wrath it burned and froze, and pressed upon him, pinning him to the stone. It was around him, inside him, and through him-burning, seeing, seizing, and like a solid hand it grasped him, squeezing and under such relentless cruelty he howled and shrieked, wishing it to end. He wished to die.

The steely fiery claws retracted, and he jerked as they were yanked from his body, and he gagged on the bile that rose with their removal, and there he laid, pained, sweating, shaking, gasping, and keening into uncaring dark stone as his body jerked in shock and twitched in agony.

Tilting his hooded head to the side, the Lord of Mordor looked down, impassive, unimpressed. Kemic had ever been a coward, and there was little sport to be had here, but even still something deep inside was vindicated. What the man had done to his son, was going to be repaid. Of course Featho would never know what transpired in the dungeons. The boy was smart enough to guess torture and death, and he'd be right, but he'd never know what that entailed. He'd never know the delighted and heavy hand his father had played in such a thing.

His fingers curled into a fist, as he stood stone still, and immovable as a mountain. He was furious, and he wanted to man to lose as he nearly had, to feel the pain that could have been his. The Lord of Mordor, had only the one child. His one precious and impossible child, that couldn't have been yet was in the defiance of Eru, and the world. And for a moment, a horrible moment, he had come so close, so bitterly close to losing his little wolf, and the fear of it couldn't be put in words, nor could the fury. And he wanted this man to feel it, to feel every aching moment of it, to know what it was like to come so close to losing something so special.

Kemic had children, and he cared for them, but the Dark Lord made a point of knowing what the true values of his servants were, and they would never have been enough. But there was something the puny man feared to lose, and long before the trial had taken place, and Kemic had been thrown into this dungeon, the Dark Lord had sent for it. And it had come at last.

What Kemic held dearest was his little sister.

But the Lord of Mordor was nothing if not patient, and he quietly watched the man squirm and squeal, and with nary a word he turned on his heel and departed. Much of what he needed to say had already been said.

Kemic, stripped of all rank and titles, was left largely to the orcs, as the Lord of Mordor ascended the heights of the utmost tower to rule his kingdom, and prepare for war. But in the following weeks, the Dark Lord was kept aware of the man's state. If he was fitted with a collar and forced to labour as a slave he cared little. If he suffered minor abuses and degradations at the leisure of orc jailors, he cared not, as long as the man was fit enough for his purposes. The man was _his_ prisoner, and his ultimate fate was his alone to determine.

And the sister he marked similarly.

The weeks crawled into a month before the Dark Lord was afforded the leisure of his sport, and while he seldom bothered with prisoners, Kemic was special. The man who'd dared assault his son! The thought alone sparked ire into conflagration, and like a gale he stalked to the sanctuary of his prey.

Arishal was the woman's name. Muscles cramped with cold and fear she huddled in a corner. Little had been done to her. She had not been stripped of her clothes, nor of her jewels. The only thing that been done, had been to her hair, once woven into intricate braids and flowers, it not hung down her back in a single thick plait.

She jerked her head up as the bolt in the door ground against stone, and it swung open.

"No! Please! No!" She screamed, as the Dark Lord of Mordor, with his nightmarish eyes appeared before her. His gaze alone was too much, to evil, too terrible, and even as she moved to get away, her head grew light, and cracked against the stone as she fell into oblivion.

Two things from the unconscious woman he took. And with great care he wrapped them as a gift in dark velvet to present to Kemic. Orcs waiting beyond the door shrank back as he slipped passed, and as soon he exited they entered.

~O~O~O~

Kemic jerked pitifully in his chains as the Lord of Mordor appeared before him, but the man was freezing, and he whined at the breaking of his solitude, wishing the menace before to depart. But the darkness encroached, and to his horror knelt beside him.

"Ah sweet little lord, why do you recoil?" His voice was glazed in honey, and the air around him was as gold. "Once you served me faithfully-shh…"

The man flinched as a gloved hand dabbed tears from his cheek. "Aww, my little lord," he laughed softly in gay humour. "You weep, yet little has befallen you. Little that cannot be rectified."

Gloved fingers gently wiped away yet more tears.

"There's no need to cry. This is a wondrous day, when wrongs may yet be rectified, and old evils laid to rest. I have brought for you something special. A gift of trifling fancy, yet devised by my own hands, will you not look and see?"

Lightly the Lord of Mordor set the parcel in the man's hands, with all the ginger care of passing a baby. And through his tears Kemic blinked confusedly down at the dark velvet in his hands.

"Go on, Lord Kemic. Tis but a dainty, but if it tickles your fancy then there is yet more I would bestow upon you, so that last we may come to an understanding." His voice smiled, and his hands were gentle. The air about him was warm and generous.

"Here," The Dark Lord said, with the same calm glowing cadence, peeling back the threads that bound the package. "Now I leave you the rest, for surely you don't wish me to ruin the surprise."

Sniffling, Kemic's shaking fingers, pinched the velvet, and peeled the soft fabric back, revealing a braid of ebony hair. Hair that could have belonged to anyone, if not for the silver rose on a silver chain that gleamed coldly amid the strands.

He choked on fear and horror, as his fingers lighted across the necklace he'd given his sister. His whole body convulsed around the sobs that ruptured from his chest. Beside him the Dark Lord stood, rising to tower above him, and in that moment the door swung inward.

A pair of orcs paraded into the cell, and he choked on hope and terror as he saw his sister between them. His terror, was mirrored in her brown eyes.

"Please!" He reached for his master's boots, but his lord was suddenly out of reach.

"Please! Don't do this! Don't do it! Not to her! Please not to her! Please!" He tried to reach for her, but chains held him back, and one of the orcs, shoved him back.

Across from him with hardly an arm's length separating them she was chained to the wall, and he sobbed, fearing what would befall her, what he was about to witness his lord or the orcs do. His mind already imagining sordid terrible things, and still he begged futilely to an uncaring heedless lord that she might be spared. He couldn't watch-couldn't and he knew he'd forced to witness what cruelty his master allowed his orcs to inflict, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

"P-p-plea-please-!"

"Please?" The Dark Lord's voice was compassionless stone.

The orcs that had dragged Arishal into the cell slipped outside, only to reappear a moment later, with a third orc. Between them, they carried small table, while the newcomer brought a plate, a chalice, a fork, and a knife.

"Please?" Mordor's Lord scoffed, as table legs scraped and dinnerware clinked behind him.

He faced Kemic, eyes burning with contempt.

"Please unhand your sister? Let her go? That's what you would ask of me?" Rancour laced his voice, and the roots of the tower shook as his words shook with the crackle of barely constrained puissance. With a mere word, he could eviscerate the man, and leave him drowning in his own entrails. With a mere flick of power, oh what he could do…what he might do yet… He was disgusted.

"Did not my son ask the same of you? Did he not plead for a reprieve? To be spared cruelty? Did he not-?" The earth trembled and the hooded gaze looked away. "You ask of me what you denied to him?"

Kemic quailed, shivering at the cruel venom that scraped his ears. But even greater was his fear as his furious lord, turned his perilous gaze toward Arishal.

She shrank back, but there was no escape, and she whimpered as a gloved hand gripped her chin.

"You love your sister."

The Dark Lord's thumb grazed the woman's lips.

"More than you ought. More than is appropriate for a brother." He smirked as the faint inhale from behind him, and victory screeched triumphantly in his chest, as he savoured the anticipation of the death knell.

His fingers fell away from the woman's face, and he turned to Kemic.

Eyes blown wide, tongue thick, heart hammering, the man scrambled away from the menace in his lord's gaze. Horror clotted the air around him, and like a gluttonous wolf his lord stalked forward.

"You love your sister, as you love food, fine wine, and amusing jokes."

Mordor's Lord clasped his hands together. "And so I shall tell you one. The greatest joke you will ever hear. It's certainly the greatest I've heard tell of…."

Kemic quivered as his lord's gaze swept over him.

"Long ago, I helped sing the earth into formation. Dike and dell, moor and mountain…I hand in the making of such things. I was painter, and the whole of the young world my canvas. Such wonders I made…but there was one and only one into which I poured myself; a treasure the likes of which the world will never see again. Its cost was great, and left me bereft of the ability to make."

He shifted to look at his captive audience. "I was rendered sterile, incapable of creating new works, begetting life…. I could no long paint and it made no difference what brush I tried, nor which stroke I used. I was bereaved of creative potential that I knew I would never get back. But then one day…." his lips quirked. "By dint, design, miracle, or my own father's will I cannot say, I sired a child. A sweet, precious, little child... He walks my earth; the only proof that I am not wholly a monster, precious to me, as no one has ever been, and yet deep down, I know in my heart that the world will one day come to claim him. And my power, for all its worth may prove too little to save him in the end."

Kemic squeaked as his lord grabbed him. "Surely you see the joke? My impossible, beautiful child, gifted to me, so that I might suffer his loss. Is it not hilarious?"

The man shut his eyes, and keened miserably, under the weight of his master's oppressive glare, and with bruising force the Dark Lord's fingers dug into his cheeks.

He fell as his lord released him, and he sputtered against cruel stone, as once more his lord rose to tower above him.

"You can't presume to tell me you've heard a joke far grander, but it matters not, for I don't find it particularly amusing. And you-"

"I never meant-! I never intended-!"

"What you intended and what you did are not the same," the Dark Lord snapped. "Whether you would have done worse or not, is irrelevant! You thought you could assail _my_ child and the Eye of Dark Tower would look away. You thought you could fly away to Rhûn, and I'd be unable to reach you. Yet here you are. And graciously, I delivered you your sister." He gestured the woman sobbing in her chains.

"You shall dine, and glut yourself upon what parts of her you like."

Arishal howled in fear, as Kemic shook his head. He wouldn't-he wouldn't, and how the perilous flickering eyes burned. They raked him with their scorn, and fire bled into the corners of his mind.

"You wish for my clemency, then first you shall do my bidding. You will have your sister." His voice was black and slaked in venom. There was nothing but acrid scorn, and heinous power was put into it, so that each word cut. And Kemic's skin crawled and itched, as if riddling by stinging insects.

"When you're thirsty it be her blood, and her tears that you drink. When you hunger it will be her flesh that will satiate you. And when there's nothing that remains of her but barren bones, you will imbibe the stock leeched from them. When they've been bleached by boiling water and brine, they will be ground into the finest powder, sieved through the finest sieve, baked into the finest bread, and that too you will eat. You will have your sister, in all the ways a man can have one. And by your own hands you will lose the one loved, as I have lost mine. Then perhaps, when you've learned my fear and experienced but a pale shadow of my torment, I will grant you the mercy you've begged for."

He folded his hands together. "Now tell me, my lord, do you wish to wine or to dine?"

* * *

 **Author's Note: I'm cutting this off here, cause if I don't this will spiral into serious M territory, as if it's not twisted enough as it is. While this is a bit vulgar, he _did_ let a party of elves be eaten by wolves, and Saruman (implicitly) forced Grima to eat a Hobbit, so Sauron doing something like this wouldn't be that far out there, even if I don't think this type of torture is really his style.  
**


	11. Drabble: Yet More Lies

**Author's Note: I decided this piece belonged here. Please heed the triggers.  
**

 **Trigger Warnings: Slut Shaming, Third Degree Burns, and psychological warfare**

 **Disclaimer: Don't own.**

* * *

 **Yet More Lies**

There were moments, fleeting moments, when Ar-Ephalazra furtively admitted that she found Tar-Mairon attractive. But mostly she found him terrible. He was cold, cruel, aloof, and intelligent. Oh, how his intellect was .frighteningly keen! Admittedly that had been the reason why she married the Dark Lord of Mordor. She needed a smart cunning husband, but the golden malicious porcelain doll flouncing about Numenor, was more so than she'd imagined, and perhaps if she had, if she had truly been capable of imagining she would have sought a husband elsewhere. But that ship had sailed when she was but a girl, and Tar-Maiorn had seen her tied to the Dark Lord-their little secret among so many lies.

She'd seen him, just once, the one to whom she'd truly pledged herself, and she bit her lip as every muscle in her body braced itself. She shrank in her chair, bowing over in fear, and fretfully she glanced toward the door, knowing she was alone-horribly, unequivocally alone.

That loneliness rose up to swallow her.

Like the wave in her visions, it was dark, blotted the sky from view, and it pulled her down deep into a dark suffocating place where there was no air, and nothing but fire in her lungs.

She was alone. Her father was lost, her mother for her entire life indisposed and forced to watch from the way-side the fall of the kingdom that had been hers. And then there was her husband, her frightening horrifying husband, whose evil knew no bounds, yet on whom she was frighteningly and pathetically dependent. His willingness to help her ended where his designs upon her throne began. Scant years she had left to defeat him, to send him back to Mordor, but he was embedded like a tick within Numenor's infrastructure, and refused to be removed.

It was rare moments like this when she could be alone, but all the time she felt lonely, and her chin crinkled as it overwhelmed her.

The door handle jiggled, and she sat straight, breath catching as the door to the entrance of their chamber opened. She dabbed at her eyes, and flipped open her poetry book, brushing aside the ribbon that marked her page, and she stood up just as he entered.

He was beautiful, in flowing robes of blue and cream, and his eyes were molten coins of pure cold, and her heart twittered in a fervent mix of attraction and anxiety. She approached the study's doorway as he entered. He slipped his cloak from his shoulders, and threw it over the back of a chair, as he passed the bed.

"Greetings."

Right before her he paused, too bright, too beautiful, and too terrible to look upon. He was sacrosanct and sacrilegious, so pure and under it all so corrupt, like a crystal fractured and glowing with a broken light.

For a moment he stood over her as an image at once defiled and perfect, and then he bent. His lips, almost too warm to be pleasant, grazed her cheek, and her insides clenched with a thrill of warmth and crippling loneliness.

It was too much.

Without thinking she grabbed him. She grabbed him, and her fingers curled into the pale blue of his robes, and she stared up at him, heart hammering, not wholly sure of her intentions nor what she wanted from him, only knowing that she did.

One elegant brow lifted expectantly, but her breath was stuck, and her tongue felt swollen, and she could do nothing but stare up at him until his hands encased her own and she uttered an ignoble squeak of protests as he forcibly levered her fingers from his cloths.

"Tar-Mairon." His eyes flicked from her hands, to meet her gaze, but after a brief pause when she said nothing else his eyes dropped once more.

"I take it your afternoon was not so-"

Something snapped inside. Something deep down she knew would prove her undoing. But for one brazen, selfish, horrific, and glorious minute Ar-Ephalazra succumbed. She pressed forward, and shoved her lips against his in a swift, clumsy, desperate kiss.

She felt him stiffen, no doubt reviling her touch, but caught in a maelstrom of madness she didn't care. She clung tighter, trying for to eek out comfort of any kind, but there was nothing. He was daunting, cold, and made or iron, and breathlessly she sagged against him, head falling to thump against his sternum. There Ar-Ephalazra buried her face in his robes; hot and cold, trembling all over, disgusted by her behaviour and so tired of being so afraid.

It was stupid. She was stupid.

And she stood limply wallowing in self-loathing.

Tar-Maiaron was still so stiff and tense, like stone, frighteningly and threateningly unmoving, and she feared what he might say or do.

His fingers squeezed hers, and then gently his arms slipped around her, and his golden hair was like the sun on her face as it cascaded from his shoulders in silken waves. The embrace she found herself wrapped in felt wondrously real, and for a moment she basked, choking on some bitter long buried sob, before closing her eyes and letting him lie.

Right then his illusions, his manipulations, and his deceptions was exactly what she needed in all their grandeur and warm amber radiance.

Broken light effervesced and his fingers found their way into her hair, gently playing with the ebony strands.

"I'm sorry." She should not have touched him so. He may have been her husband, but there was no love between them, only doom and sorrow.

"Whatever for?" He asked lightly.

Ar-Ephalazra's brow knit in worry. But when she made to pull away his hands in her hair became restrictive, and alarum pulsed cold along her spine.

His hands shifted, one slipping from the back of her head to curl under her chin, and his eyes bore into hers when at last they met. Gold; molten gold gleaming with cunning and cruel intellect held her riveted to the spot.

The world fell away, and there was only him, only that magnificent frightening molten gold.

"What means it to me, if Numenor's future queen wishes to renounce all propriety and prostitute herself before an enemy?"

She hissed angrily.

"That's-"

He shoved her back, impassively watching as she stumbled and regained her footing.

The gossamer light around him crackled, and the air fizzed with warning.

"Wait, wait, wait!" Her lower spine crunched as she backed into the desk, and her heart sputtered as he approached, ghastly and bright with fearsome light.

Tar-Mairon paused, a finger pressed thoughtfully against his chin.

"Yes?"

His voice was greased in feigned pleasance.

Wide-eyed Ar-Ephalazra watched him, scowling.

"I do not sell myself like a dockside harlot."

"Do you not?" His lips curled in a smirk, and he was moving again. There was something altogether threatening and predatory in the casual air around him. An unhurried menace, and she wished there was a place to run, but he was fast, with the door behind him, and nowhere left to go but the balcony she was trapped, and she didn't want him to see how afraid she truly was.

Boldly she met his gaze, biting down her tongue as the urge to look away become overwhelming.

"Need I remind you whose idea it was we should wed? Is that not prostitution Sweetling?"

Her insides churned.

"But then you didn't marry Tar-Mairon, did you?" His smile was sick with triumphant. "You married the Lord of Mordor."

"The Lord of Mordor, yes. I married him. I married him, and by extension I married the golden, gossamer, porcelain doll he parades about Numenor, and allows all and sundry to play with! I married him. It was my idea. But he was not forced to agree. He could have said 'no,' yet he didn't, but I'm a prostitute?" She uttered a humourless laugh. "My dear, your venom has lost its potency."

His eyes flickered, and he stood still, unmoving, and she smiled. She smiled at his anger. "I'm not a prostitute Sweetheart," she whispered, straightening to her full height. "I'm something far, far worse." His eyes narrowed and her smile softened into something she hoped resembled seductiveness. "I'm a politician."

"You think you're funny."

Her brows rose. "You think I am."

Tar-Mairon's smile twisted into something that might have been genuine, and scant inches were suddenly left between them. All was gold again, but as his fingers grazed her chin, and slipped over her lips, to trail down her throat, his gaze hardened, and the soft light about him sharpened. He yanked her forward as she flinched, and his breath ghosted over her mouth.

"Politicians are the most unscrupulous of whores, but you are right about one thing: I do find your pathetic attempts to give me sass amusing in their failure."

"You still need to think of better insults."

The corner of his mouth twitched.

"Tread lightly Little Lamb. Tread lightly, or thou may yet find thyself reduced to a lamb chop."

The threat was real enough, but before she could say more, his mouth met hers in a scalding kiss. In pain she whimpered against his lips, and he smiled, trailing a sweltering constellation from the corner of her mouth down her throat. He took his time lavishing cruel and twisted care upon her, in roses of blistering red, relishing every mewl of discomfort, and every jerk of pain, as she twitched in futile attempts to flee him made him smile.

Wetness touched his nose, and he kissed away her tears, smirking as her hands rose to his chest to push him back. He leaned in, forcing her to bend backward. He pressed one last kiss upon her lips and he made it salacious, and venomously sweet. His fingers curled in her hair, and the other slid to the small of her back, and he held her in scornful mockery of a lover's embrace, as pained little sobs and punched their way down his throat. He groaned, purring in delights, relishing every bleat of agony.

Slowly he pulled away, eyes glittering in fell mirth and bitter condescension, as he appraised his work. One of her hands flew to her mouth and the other to his chest as she unsuccessfully tried to put distance between them, but he had her helplessly caught.

His fingers smoothed through her hair, and with ginger care he lifted her face to look at him, and his eyes were almost compassionate. His touch seemed mournful, and his gaze remorseful, as he looked down her.

"Let me go-" Her words were shill and slurred as she spoke around stinging blisters, and the smile that lit his face was beautiful and soft.

"Don't ever touch me again." His dulcet tone was sharply at odds with the razor edge of threat in his voice. "Or far worse I will see you suffer for it."

Ar-Ephalazra nodded miserably. With tender care Tar-Mairon held her as she sobbed.


	12. Drabble: His hands

**Author's Note: so I came up with this rather spontaneously, but it's also been something that's been bothering me. So during the Third Age Sauron, was swanning about, claiming to be Morgoth Returned, and proclaiming himself to be God. So I've often wondered what Featho thought of that, when he heard it. Surely he must have, at some point, or perhaps several points over his life, and while this isn't story breaking plot-hole, it's still a matter I wish to settle in some capacity.**

 **That is** _ **not**_ **what happened here.**

 **Disclaimer: No profit was made off this absurd idea**

* * *

 **Drabble: His Hands**

The Dark Lord's hands were burned black and brittle. Featho was reminded of beetle skins-crackled carapaces left to whither in the sun, but his father's hands felt of flesh and bone as any other hands, and they did not crackle or whither to dust as he examined them.

They were strong hands broken by mountain chains of scars, cut across by molten veins of fire. Valleys formed between tendons as fingers flexed, and Featho found his father's hands an endless fascination. And he hadn't given much to thought to why or how they looked as they did, for they were his father's hands, and that had been summary enough. His father was good, and so surely his hands must be too. There hadn't been reason before to question it until troubling words reached his ears, and his little brow was furrowed in a child's innocent perplexion.

He pressed a hand against his father's. Stark pale chubby little fingers, barely escaped his father's palm. They fluttered anxiously against blackened skin before he spoke.

"Father… I'm scared…."

The Lord of Mordor stiffened, and the one arm wrapped around Featho's waist tightened. "What of, Little Wolf?"

Prudence was a skill he had not yet acquired, nor did it occur to him to be dishonest.

"You."

"How so?" His father's voice was flat and devoid of emotion.

"The men earlier…they called you Morgoth. Why did they call you that?"

It bothered him enough that he made to squirm and turn around in his father's lap, but the arm around him was heavy and immovable. A shadow grew around him, and he fell still, shaking, afraid of the black above him. He leant back, shivering against his father's belly as something fierce and malignant scratched at his ears, and at the walls.

"Oh," The Dark Lord sighed, and the darkness evaporated. "Little Wolf…." There was an edge to his father's voice, and Featho felt him shaking, with laughter or with tears he wasn't sure.

"You're not _him_ are you?"

"Of course I'm not! I'm greater than he ever was!" His father snarled, and Featho believed him. With a squeak, the found himself lifted and turned about, to meet molten eyes.

His father was furious. Wrath churned in his gaze, and his hands on either side of Featho's ribcage trembled.

"Morgoth was a spineless coward, and a fool, who sought to destroy. I am neither of those, and greater than he ever was! My desires have ever been to fix Arda. Why would you ask such a thing?"

"Your hands- hands-are like his, and what they said."

It was a truth too potent to ignore, and the Dark Lord released him as though he'd been stung. The dropped like a sack of potatoes off balance of his father's thigh, and he curled trembling in has father's lap, wiping at his eyes until her hear the scrape of leather and chanced a glance at the movement in his peripheral.

Gloves! His father began was yanking them on, and Featho mewled rising in protest to snatch them away.

"No, I wasn't done. I want your hands." He strained for the hands raised too high to reach, pawing and pulling futilely at velveteen sleeves.

"Why? Why are you-I want your hands. I wasn't finished holding them. Please, let me have your hands. Father I like your hands!" He pled. "Give them back, please….I wasn't finished holding them."

Greedily he snatched his father's hands when they strayed within reach, and immediately he began to pry and twist the tough leather loose of his father's fists.

"Featho!" His father warned, but the child tugged harder.

"Enough!"

"I want your hands," he whined in abysmal protest.

"You have them. Both of them."

"No I don't. The gloves-they have stupid gloves on them."

"Watch your language."

In fuming, furious, tearful silence, the child glowered at his father's gloved hands,

"Why did you put them on?" He folded his arms indignantly.

Above him, the Lord of Mordor, was pinching his nose as he sighed. "I put them on, because my hands were bothering you."

"But your hands don't bother me," Featho said softly. "I like them fine." He pointed to the door. "They bother me. I don't like them. And I don't like their words. They're terrible. They shouldn't say things like that. Why did you let them call you that?"

"I didn't stop them, because they didn't mean any harm by it. It was meant as an endearment- a nice thing-"

"But it's not nice," Featho insisted, exasperated.

He clung to his father's robes and stood, teetering precariously on his father's thigh, as he tried to glare his father into submission.

"Morgoth is the most powerful lord they know. They know no other to whom my majesty may be compared. It's their way of celebrating of my greatness."

"But it's wrong! They're wrong!"

The Dark Lord pressed a finger to the child's lips. "Yes, it's incorrect, but they don't do it to offend."

Featho was scowling, and the image of a child that didn't reach his collar bone when standing on him, trying to give him the evil eye, was an amusing one. It was lucky, the Dark Lord thought him so, or the boy might have suffered otherwise.

"I'm offenced."

"Well, Little One, I'm sorry it _offends_ you, but things must be as they are, even if they're distasteful."

The boy scowled confused more than angry.

"Why?"

"One day I will tell you why I allow them their transgressions. But suffice it to say it's a matter of politics."

"What's…poli-poltics?"

"That too I will tell you later."

Grumbling and simmering the child sat back down. "Can I please have your hands?"

"You still have them, son."

He pouted, and glowered at the offensive, hateful, stupid gloves hiding his father's hands.

"I don't want gloves."

Arms folded, and fingers fluttering, the boy eyed them as a general would enemy ranks, scouting them for weaknesses.

"Please?" He asked. "May I have your hands?" He asked politely, and the Dark Lord's lip twitched at such hopeless manipulation.

"Why do you want them so badly?" The Lord of Mordor asked.

"I like them."

The Dark Lord's brow rose. He was fairly certain the whole conversation had started with the boy being disturbed by them.

"So you say, but I wish to know why." The boy frowned, looking up at the hooded gaze. "Why do you like them?" The Lord of Mordor asked.

"They're your hands."

"Yes…that is certainly true. They are indeed my hands. But why do you like them Frumsnaag?"

"I like you." It was a simple enough answer that explained everything. His father was good, and so too must have been his hands. He yanked once more at the leather gloves and smiled at the blackened flesh and fiery veins they revealed.


End file.
